And This One's For You
by capsicleironman
Summary: Steve Rogers is a writer looking for work in the Bohemian underworld of 1899, Paris. Tony Stark always did know how to charm a crowd, and he'll be moving on to bigger and better things the first chance he gets. Steve is a hopeless romantic; Tony has never believed in love. An Avengers/Moulin Rouge! crossover.
1. Prologue

Steve Rogers stared at the beat up old typewriter for three days straight. What else did he have to do? Work could only occupy his mind for so long, and sweeping the streets could hardly be considered an absorbing profession—even then, amidst the dirt and grime, his mind drifted to the past. Funny to think that just a week ago, his whole life had been lined up in front of him—the job of his dreams grasped tightly in his hands, and the love of his life in his bed. That first night, alone beneath the Paris lights, he thought he could feel his lover's lips on the back of his neck—every gust of wind, the man's fingertips ghosting along his jaw.

Steve no longer entertained such fantasies.

In just a matter of a week, he'd fallen into routine: sleep, work, eat, stare at the type writer, and sleep again. The old machine taunted him. Buttons worn down from the year he'd spent pressing them to breaking point, a single sheet of blank white paper calling for answers, for words, for some small purpose in this empty and meaningless world. And oh, how he wished he meant that, how desperately he longed to feel nothing, to lock himself away, to close his heart off from the world; life would be easier, he thought, in the black and white, but he'd seen colors streaked across the world's canvas in shades too vivid to name, and he'd lived in the in between, in the spaces between words. To turn his back on that now would be blasphemy. After all, a tragic ending hardly discounted a good story.

And their story certainly had been a good one.

Steve pulled his chair closer to the table, but rather than place his hands upon the keys, he stroked his overgrown beard and stared out the window. Below him, the city stretched on for miles—Paris, 1900—and what a sight it was to behold, bustling with life, constant proof that life goes on after death, for if it did not, the city—the world, even—would certainly have stopped in its tracks—frozen, silent, still.

Tearing his eyes from the scene, for he could no longer bear to look at the brightly colored outfits or to hear their loud, joyful, songs, Steve shut the window and slowly—hesitantly—placed his hands along the keys of the type writer. His fingers pressed down upon every letter, and yet he could feel the pressure pushing up like a pounding force, pushing up, up, up into his fingers, into every nerve in his body until it made his heart race. It shouldn't be this hard—rationally, he knew this—but art wasn't made to be easy, was it? If it were, everyone would do it.

A great man once said that writing was painful—or was it a woman? Or was it many writers? Thinking back on it now, Steve wasn't sure he'd ever met a writer in his right mind (and in this city, he'd met many, many writers) who claimed to find ease in the writing process. Such a man was a fool. To write was to pour your soul onto paper, to express the inexpressible, and such impossible things could only be made possible through sacrifice. Writing hurt. Luckily, Steve had never been afraid of pain.

He choked back tears as he pressed the first letter onto the blank page before him. "The greatest thing you'll ever learn," he wrote, "Is just to love, and be loved in return." He left a space, then heaved a deep breath and continued, "SHIELD. A night club, a dance hall, a market for the future, and a bordello. Ruled over by Nick Fury. A kingdom of night time pleasures, where the rich played with the young and beautiful creatures of the underworld. The most beautiful of all these was the man I loved. A brilliant salesman, he sold his love to me. The man I loved is dead."


	2. Chapter 1

Unlike many young men his age, Steve Rogers never dreamed of fame and fortune, never longed to rise above the masses and deem himself 'better' than the rest. All Steve had ever wanted was simply to be a part of it all—a puzzle piece to make up the bigger picture. He dreamed—no, he longed (here, the word finally seemed right)—to be involved, and as a proud American, he believed it was his patriotic duty to partake in all that the states had to offer. Should his country have gone to war at that very moment, then he would have enlisted immediately, not because he wished to kill, not even because he wished to fight, but because it was his duty to protect. But protecting meant more than simply raising your fists to the good fight; protecting meant preserving, absorbing and expressing life because this life, as Steve well knew, was for living, and up until that moment, he'd been quite unable to do so.

Mr. Sick, poor, and unlucky—that had been Steve's moniker growing up. At sixteen, when all the other boys his age were playing baseball and flexing their muscles to impress a pretty dame, he was stuck in bed—ninety pounds, asthmatic, and shorter than most of the girls of his class, let alone the puberty-sprouting six-foot male giants of the eleventh grade. He did his homework from his hospital bed and watched his mother work her fingers to the bone to pay for his bills. It wasn't until he was twenty-one years old that biology caught up with him—a growth sprout and strength that he groomed at the gym until there was no job he could not do. And he did them all—cooking and cleaning and manual labor, anything and everything to put food on the table and take care of his increasingly weakening mother, as though she had taken all his sickness upon herself. When he was twenty-two, his mother passed, and Steve found himself alone in the world with nothing but a string of dead-end jobs, and a journal full of half-finished stories.

Steve had never been great at science, and he certainly would never be a psychologist, but it wasn't hard to figure out why he wrote. No matter how dark his world, no matter how bleak, his stories existed with endless possibilities.

So Steve packed up his things, all his earthly belongings folded up into one small bag, and he set off to see the world, for while he loved his country, life was waiting, and the hub of life, the pinnacle of art and expression in 1899 was Paris, France. It was not, as the nuns of his schooling had said, "a village of sin," but the center of the Bohemian Revolution, where writers and painters and musicians from around the world came to express themselves in a cultural and artistic extravaganza created by a people known as 'The Children of the Revolution'. Now, Steve was under no impression that he could single handedly represent his country and its vast creativity—he was only one man—but he was one man wiling to contribute his two cents to history, to lend his mind and his pen to a revolution he was sure would never be forgotten.

Steve had come to live a penniless existence, had come to live in a hole in the wall apartment with a grouchy landlady that threw the key at his head rather than hand it to him, had come to nothing but the endless expanses of his own imagination. He had come to write about truth, beauty, freedom, and that which he believed in above all things: love.

His mother had often teased him about, his "ridiculous obsession with love," and his high school friend, Bucky, had bullied and ridiculed him for years—all in good fun, of course, because no one ever quite had his back the way Bucky did. Whether Steve was sick and scrawny, or tall and fit, Bucky had always stuck by him. Now, Steve was on his own and battling an addiction that consumed him—his crazy, ridiculous "obsession" with love.

Maybe he was simply a romantic at heart, or maybe he'd read too many books while locked away in his sick bed, but Steve never could get the idea out of his head. He dreamed about it all the time—not just any love, mind you, but the right love. Hell, he'd never even danced with another human being in his whole life simply because he was too hung up on finding the right partner. It just seemed nice, that was all—someone with whom you could share everything, someone you could hold.

There was only one problem: he had never been in love.

Luckily, at that very moment, as he sat in front of his type writer, racking his brains to find a good start to his romance, an unconscious scientist fell through his ceiling. At least, Steve thought he was a scientist, or perhaps some crazy person, as he wore a white coat streaked in grime and something green. He was suspended from the room above by a rope that was tied around his ankles.

He was quickly joined by a man dressed as a nun and carrying a bow on his back and a quiver of arrows at his side.

"Hello, how do you do?" The nun said with wild enthusiasm, as though an unconscious man had not just fallen through the roof, he was notdressed like a woman, and they had all not just come barging into Steve's newly rented apartment. "I'm Clint Barton. Sorry about all this. We were just upstairs rehearsing for a play. Awesome new idea called Spectacular, Spectacular. Set in Switzerland. You'd love it. Everyone's going to love it. If our friend here could stay awake," he said, poking the unconscious man in the ribs. "When he gets angry, he gets weird—sort of green around the edges—and then he passes out. You don't want to make him angry."

Before Steve could do more than silently gape in confusion, two more faces appeared around the hole in the ceiling—a man with long blond hair, and a woman with sleek red hair and sharp eyes.

"How is he?" asked the blond man in a booming voice that reminded Steve oddly of thunder. He thought he might be Norwegian by the sound of his voice, but he never could tell.

"Could you stop making him Hulk out?" asked the woman with the fiery hair.

"Hulk out?" Steve repeated, managing, finally, to find words, though they hadn't exactly been the ones he'd expected (he'd expected words such as 'what are you all doing here' and 'could you please fix my roof').

"It's what we call it, when Bruce does this," Clint said, poking the unconscious man, who must have been Bruce, in the ribs once more, but it was no good; he was out cold. "We can't find a name for it. So we named it ourselves.

"We're not going to have the play ready for tomorrow," said the woman, her eyes narrowing. Her lips formed a sharp, straight line.

The man beside her frowned, a perfect upside down 'U' that was far more comical than it should have been given the situation. He rather looked like an oversized kid who had dropped his ice cream. "And I have not finished the music," he said gravely.

"We'll find someone for the part," Clint said, rolling his eyes. "You two worry too much."

"Who will we find on this sort of notice?" the woman asked.

Immediately, three sets of eyes fell upon Steve's face and scanned the length of his body, sizing him up. Before he knew quite what was happening, Steve found himself upstairs, dressed in Swiss clothes and playing the role of the sensitive Swiss poet. Feeling ridiculous in the too-tight pants and funny hat, he stood on a poorly constructed 'mountain' and surveyed the room. A piano in the corner, clothes and props scattered across the floor, and several half-painted back drops against the wall.

And the players were just as chaotic as their room. From the second Steve stepped into their world, they did nothing but argue. They argued over the music—whether it was too quiet, or too loud, or if the pitch was right, or if they should have music at all. They argued over the scenery and which backdrop should go where, and if they were good enough, or bright enough—did they distract from the scene or add to it. They argued and yelled and screamed at one another for their acting, and each actor seemed to play a handful of different roles, which served only to confuse Steve further. They desperately needed leadership, especially if their play was to be presented to their, as they called it, "money," the next day.

It was a role that, like many things in Steve's life, simply fell upon his shoulders. He'd never been captain of any sport team, never lead a club, never even been the leading voice of his own friends, but he knew when to step in and when to let things lie, knew which causes were worth fighting for, and just as he saw hope in every forsaken fight in a back alley that had him raising his bony fists to a bully twice his size, he saw hope in this group of uncoordinated and unprepared actors. Because what they lacked in organization and raw skill, they more than made up for in determination.

"Hey!" he called over the chaos. "We need to plan this." He stepped down from the mountain and crossed his arms over his chest as he mentally mapped out the room. "Clint, you stand there." He pointed to a spot across the room. "And you—" He pointed at the redhead. "Over there."

"Natasha," she supplied helpfully, and, despite the curl of her lip and force of her stare, moved to the location in which he had instructed.

Steve then told the last man, Thor, as he soon found out, to play something soft on the piano so the lines of the play could easily be heard above it.

As things finally—finally—began to come together, Bruce woke up from his state of sleep or unconsciousness (Steve was still unsure), watched, in silence, as they rehearsed for several minutes, then crossed his arms over his chest and announced, "I like it. This could work. Do you write? I thought I saw a type writer down there." He gestured at the hole in the floor that led directly to Steve's apartment.

Steve nodded. "Yes, I write."

"Good. Write our play."

And that was how Steve got his first job as a writer in the Bohemian Revolution—his original dream come true—all because he happened to be in the right place at the right time with enough talent locked away in his mind to get him by. The only problem was that the "money" had to sign off on the writer of the play if he were to sponsor it, and Steve, in his old ripped clothes and penniless existence was hardly a man that this prestigious and mysterious "money" would support.

So they came up with a plan: to dress Steve in one of Bruce's old suits and pass him off as a well-to-do English writer. His job then was to talk to, well, someone—they had yet to give him a name—and once he had impressed this someone, he (he being the mysterious and captivating 'someone' that they all talked about with differing views of awe, respect, and disgust) would insist that the "money" support Steve and his little play.

All of this was decided without Steve's input and all within ten minutes of meeting these strange and eccentric group of actors (as a group, they called themselves The Avengers, but what they were avenging or why, Steve had not the slightest idea).

"I don't know," Steve said as they all turned to him with identical stares of hope and excitement. "I don't even know if I am a true Bohemian writer." He'd barely been in the city half a day, after all, and while he'd hoped to one day be in this position, it was all happening rather fast.

"Do you believe in truth?" Bruce asked.

"Yes," Steve replied honestly.

"And freedom?" asked Clint.

Steve nodded. "Of course."

"Love?" asked Natasha.

Steve froze. He thought of the busy dance floor at his school and how he'd sat in the corner alone; he thought of the stacks of books he'd read and the love stories in all of them—whether they be drama, mystery, or murder, there was love in them all; he thought of his untouched keyboard in the room below, a tool practically screaming for a good story. "Love," he repeated, the word soft on his lips. He liked the sound of it. He loved the feel of it. "Above all things, I believe in love."

Natasha, in all her fear-striking coldness, gave him what was undoubtedly a warm and supportive smile, and it was that, above everything else that day, that assured him he was doing the right thing. "That's it," she said. "You're the voice of the Revolution, Captain."

* * *

That night, they dressed him up like a doll, straightening his suit sleeves and knoting and unknoting his tie at least a dozen different times before they were finally satisfied.

"This person must be pretty important," Steve said, staring down at the dress shoes that Bruce was currently shining for him. It was odd, being made up in such an extravagant outfit, when all his life he'd had nothing but rags.

"Steve, you're meeting with Tony Stark," Clint informed him. He grabbed several different hats from their prop table and tried them each on Steve's head. He chose a tall black one—proper, but not quite Lincoln styled—then took a step back to admire Steve in his transformation. "This should work."

Steve, meanwhile, was far more interested in the name than his outfit. "Tony Stark?" he repeated.

"Engineer, genius, show monkey," Natasha replied. She sat in the corner of the room, legs crossed as she watched the boys fuss about their outfits; she had gotten dressed in under two minutes and still looked stunning in a dress and heels. "He's the face of the company that we're trying to get to sponsor the play. They're all about forming the future, and they're a big player in the Revolution. It's owned by a man named Nick Fury, but Stark's the brains—he brings in the clients, he puts on his show, and he gets them to stay and to pass over their money in the process."

"His show?" Steve asked.

"Yeah. Showing off the future. He talks about the new machinery, and the art, and the music; he's like a spokesperson for Tomorrow, and people listen. He could get you to buy anything," Natasha said with a shrug.

Clint snorted. "Including him."

Steve raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Let's just say, Stark will do anything to get a deal, and if he didn't, he'd be out of a job. Fury likes success, and he likes money, and those are two things Stark does well," Bruce explained. He stood up and looked Steve over from head to toe before nodding once in approval. "You're ready."

Nick Fury, as it turned out, owned a club on a hill just a few blocks from Steve's apartment entitled, simply: SHIELD. No one would explain to him what the letters stood for, but, upon entering the building, Steve soon found that he didn't care. SHIELD was a circus to the new eye. A blur of color and noise, there was something different to see in every direction—musicians playing around the room and women dancing in bright dresses of orange and pink and red. The dresses were shorter than any Steve had ever seen before, and though he tried not to make assumptions about anyone, he remembered what Bruce had said about 'selling everything,' and so he could not say he was completely surprised (though startled) when a woman propositioned him for the night. When he told her his pockets were empty, she quickly moved on.

From the looks of it, SHIELD was one big party with a stage set out in the middle, waiting for the real 'show' to begin. And begin it did when, suddenly, the lights all around went dim and a single spot light appeared on stage.

"There he is," said Bruce just as a man in a perfectly tailored suit walked on stage. "Tony Stark."


	3. Chapter 2

When push came to shove, Tony Stark was nothing more than a mechanic. He was a futurist—a man who saw something broken, and worked to fix it, a man who looked at a thousand scattered pieces, and rather than see a mess, saw the picture they were destined to make. Ever since he was a little boy, building had been Tony's main objective in life—whether it be piecing together the parts in his father's garage to make an engine, or piecing together the right words to get a date, all of Tony's world was hand manufactured—from his inventions, to his friends. After all, 'friend' was just a code word for client—someone to make or take the money because money made the world go round.

Once upon a time, Tony supposed he'd been starry-eyed and hopeful like many of the men who came through SHIELD's doors these days, but such a time had long passed away; Tony was a realist now, a man who worked with what was in front of him, and he had no time for idle dreams of fairytale romances. Because that was what romance was, wasn't it? Just an invented tale to get children through their roughest days, an anchor to hope when the world was cold and dark.

Had he planned for his life to turn out this way? No. Did he love his job? Of course not. But the life was comfortable, the money was steady, and maybe it took a few questionable deeds in the bedroom to seal the deal, but Tony was creating the future one client at a time. SHIELD, for all its questionable ethics and carefully hushed up policies, existed, simply, for the good of mankind.

Inventors around the world came to SHIELD to advertise their ideas, everything from new appliances to new medical procedures; artists traveled from distant countries to try and sell their work on SHIELD's stage; musicians performed their pieces ever night, and culture blossomed behind SHIELD's closed doors. But no musician would find themselves hired for the next live show, no artist would be offered a gallery of their own, no inventor would have his product sold and marketed in every story in the world if there were not men with money to back their ideas.

And that was where Tony came in. Handsome and charismatic, it was his job to sell the work of SHIELD's clients to their benefactors no matter what the cost, and the cost, often, was Tony himself—a price he'd long since gotten used to it. It was all part of the plan, anyway. Because when he got enough money, and the time was right, Tony would start his own business and leave all of this behind.

That night, they were selling a couple of musicians, several new 'world changing' inventions, some new play called Spectacular Something, and several of Tony's own projects for which he was the most excited. The band was good, the other inventions were mediocre at best, and he hadn't even looked at what the play was about, but Tony knew he'd finally hit the jackpot with his newest creation. Small, portable, and completely self-sufficient, he'd dubbed the device 'the arc reactor' and he dreamed of the day when it would power every factory in the world without an ounce of pollution—all he needed was someone to mass produce and advertise for it and he could change the whole world as they knew it.

Fury had given him nothing but a brief description of that night's guest of honor, the Duke with an endless supply of money: he'd be the blonde, the one sitting front and center with the top hat and well-pressed suit.

The man was easy enough to find, and far more attractive than Tony would have guessed. Broad shoulders and a small waist, baby blue eyes, and the nervous expression of a newcomer, he was hardly what Tony was used to with these well-to-do business types.

Winking in the man's direction, Tony took center stage. All around him, girls dressed in nothing but red and gold undergarments danced around, drawing the attention of the wealthy crowd in front of them.

Then Tony cleared his throat, and all went silent, a single spotlight singling him out. He imagined that the words behind him read "Stark Expo" rather than "SHIELD" and with that last boost of confidence, he began his speech to heightened applause.

"Oh, it's good to be back," he said, turning so as to face the entire crowd one person at a time—he winked and smiled here and there at the familiar faces, though his gaze always came back to the blonde at front and center. Eye contact, he'd learned, did wonders in developing trust, in making the clients feel as though they were unique, special—as though they, and only they got the perks that SHIELD dished out. And if he lost himself a bit in those baby blues, imagining that they were oceans he could escape through, escape into, the no one had to know but him.

"You missed me?" Tony asked the crowd and they cheered even louder. "I missed you too. Please, please, it's not about me." He raised his hands in a gesture of humility—a gesture as forced and fake as the entirety of his show, all acted out and rehearsed behind the scenes, and yet he could not help but believe every word. This show was the future. This show was opportunity. "It's not about you. It's not even about us. It's about legacy. It's about what we choose to leave behind. Our goal here is to see the best and brightest men and women of corporations and nations the world over pull their resources together, share their collective vision, to leave behind a brighter future. It's not about us. It's about what we can make. About what we can make better."

By now the crowd was silent, listening, watching. As Tony brought out each new invention, each new art movement, and each new idea, he imagined what the world would be like if this worked, if they had all the money and opportunity they needed; would it all be worth it? Would the story of his life finally have a worthy end?

The show ended not with answers, but with more questions. Those with money questioned what to do with it, and those without money questioned if they'd ever make it in this cutthroat world. Tony knew the story well enough, and before he exited the stage, he implored all those with money to invest, and all those with ideas to contribute. Then the lights came back on, the women began to dance once more, and Tony made his way across the crowd and stopped in front of the man he took to be the Duke.

Moving in close, he grinned and said in the silky voice that he'd learned over the years got him exactly what he wanted, "I believe you were expecting me."

* * *

Tony Stark crashed into Steve's life like a tornado—a whirlwind of new ideas and charming smiles, and the sort of eye contact that really gave meaning to the word 'contact' as though Tony was reaching out to touch him even when he was half a room away. Steve had been warned, of course, but nothing his friends had said (and he supposed the Avengers were his friends now, weren't they?) had prepared him for just how very unprepared he actually was. Throughout Tony's speech, Steve find himself glued to his seat, unable to tear his eyes away from the show for even a second. Tony was, to put it simply, mesmerizing.

He was attractive—of course he was—with a strong jaw and bright eyes, but it was his voice that captivated Steve most, a voice that seemed to control the room with every syllable, a passion in his tone that made it impossible not to hang on his every word.

So when Tony stopped in front of him, big brown eyes and low voice completely focused on him—on Steve—he rather thought his heart stopped beating.

"Uh, yes," he said when, finally, he found the nerve to speak.

Tony grinned, easily and light, but lacking somehow in a way Steve wasn't sure he liked, as though it was all constructed for Steve's benefit, pieced together perfectly but only surface deep. "Would you like to dance?" he asked, and Steve nodded wordlessly.

Out on the floor, Steve rested his hands along Tony's hip bones, and Tony pressed his body against Steve's, and though he knew it was fake, knew it was Tony's job to make him feel special and that the Avengers had planned this night to a tea, he couldn't help the way it made his heart race. Because his thumbs fit perfectly against Tony's hips, and this close, he could read novels in Tony's eyes—a million different expressions that didn't show in his picture perfect smile, but that were clear as day when the spotlight faded away.

He wondered, briefly, how many others had seen Tony up close like this, how many other men and women had ever been more than just another audience member in the crowd.

Steve was not so vain as to think that he was alone; he knew well enough that he was not the first—probably not even the hundredth person with witch Tony had danced, and the meeting that would follow—a private poetry reading that Natasha had organized—was probably nothing new in Tony's daily agenda. But while Steve knew this, rationally, his stupid and inexperienced heart seemed incapable of getting the memo. Because dancing and touching, and Tony smiling at him like he was the only person in the world all seemed like very good things, even if they weren't very real.

"I'm going to go ahead and guess that you don't dance much," Tony said after Steve stepped on his foot for the tenth time. He was smiling, but it still managed to make Steve blush.

"I'm sorry. I—it's my first time," he explained.

Tony's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "A dancing virgin, huh?" He rubbed his thumb along the stitching of Steve's suit shoulder and began to trace circles over the spot. Steve forced himself not to shutter at the sensation. "What have you been waiting for?"

Steve shrugged. "The right partner." After all his waiting, he'd thought he'd be more selective, and yet, here he was, giving away his first dance to a prostitute at a night club, all so he could gather funds for a group of actors he had just met.

What on Earth had he gotten himself into?

Tony's smile softened somewhat, but he stepped back and dropped his hands to his sides, effectively ending the dance. It took all of Steve's will power not to reach out and drag him back.

"I'll get us that private room ready." Tony said, winked, and then walked across the room and back onto the stage.

He threw his arms out and bowed to everyone present. "Thank you all for coming. You know where the donation bucket is. Please don't hesitate to fill it. Right now. Go." He pointed to the corner of the room, and everyone laughed, as though they couldn't hear the desperation in Tony's voice, the truth behind the joking. Steve could, and he still didn't like it.

He looked around the room—this time beyond the colors and the dancing, but at the faces of the performers, at the bags under their eyes and the tight clench of their hands, at the way a frown would take over their plastered smiles each time their act was up. A nightclub full of life, pleasure, and possibilities, and Steve could not find a single truly happy soul in the entire building.

Tony made one last speech, and the crowd went wild as it seemed they would at anything he said. Then, quite suddenly, Tony went completely silent and placed a shaking hand over his chest.

Before Steve could do much more than wonder what was happening, a dark-skinned man wearing an eye patch rushed on stage and helped Tony off of it.

"That's Nick Fury, the owner," Bruce hissed in Steve's ear, nodding at the man with the eye-patch.

Once Tony had disappeared backstage, the man returned, smiling as though nothing had happened and clapping his hands together to gather the crowd's attention. "Enjoy the rest of your night, folks," he said. "The show might be over, but don't forget to take another look at tonight's products and remember; donations keep the future alive."

It was not the first time, and would probably not be the last, that Steve wished for more than a penny in his pocket.


	4. Chapter 3

Tony ripped off his cuff-links and threw his suit jacket to the floor the moment he stepped backstage. Peeling his dress shirt from his chest, his surveyed the damage in the mirror—the familiar scars that crisscrossed, pale white over his heart—the lines that, over the last few months, had become as familiar a sight in the mirror as his own face.

First vacation in two years, and this was what he got—a trip back home to the states ruined with an impromptu kidnapping, a few months of torture (always a nice touch), and rescue just a few days too late.

He buttoned his shirt back up, effectively hiding the scarring—those fading lines that would, one day he knew, kill him—maybe not that night, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not even that year, but sooner or later, his heart would fail.

There were other options of course—surgery, medicine—but none that he had the money for, and if he had it his way, he wouldn't need a doctor at all. He'd made his cure, and it sat out on the stage being picked apart by a dozen men in top hats and well-pressed suits, arguing about how much it was worth. The arc reactor was a prototype, and it would need months of work before it could ever be a suitable energy source—for the city or for his barely beating heart, but he knew—more than he'd ever known anything in his life—that it could work.

Clearing his throat, he wiped the look of worry from his face and turned to the man hovering behind him. James Rhodes, AKA "Rhodey"—his best friend and a man with more honor and moral standing than Tony could hope to ever have.

The two had both gotten their jobs at SHIELD years ago and had gone to school together before that. Rhodey—the strong upstanding citizen that he was—had refused to, as he so gracefully put it, "degrade himself for money." So he did lights and construction and beat the shit out of anyone that tried to hurt Tony or any of the other "performers" and always managed to keep his pants on in the process.

Tony never did have that luxury.

Rhodey stood now with his elbows against the bar, his eyes narrowed, and a worried frown playing over his lips. He looked, to Tony, like a very masculine, very annoyed, nanny. "You sure you're okay, Tones?" he asked.

Tony grinned. The expression, fake and overused, was beginning to give him a cramp in his jaw. "Right as rain, Honeybear," he replied, rolling up his sleeves before beginning to pick through his closet. "What do you think's the Duke's type?

Rhodey rolled his eyes. "Naked always seems to do the trick."

"Stark naked," Tony agreed to which Rhodey gave him a look that was damn near murderous.

Because naked was the finale, and he didn't want to spoil the show, Tony settled on a new suit instead because Dukes were the sorts of people who appreciated the finer things in life and dressed with class and sophistication. At least, he was guessing that they did. He'd never actually met a Duke, but he'd been around enough CEO's, princes, and politicians to paint a similar picture.

"Wish me luck," he said, saluting Rhodey on his way out.

"Make sure he wears a condom!" his friend yelled after him.

The Duke was waiting for Toy in the place where all his "dates" waited—on the top floor of SHIELD tower where the balcony overlooked the city for miles. Never let anyone tell you there weren't perks to a dirty job. Between the breathtaking view, the expensive scotch in his own private bar, and all the tools and supplies he could ever need to tinker in the few spare moments he had, it was almost worth it.

'Almost' being the key word.

As Tony set eyes on the Duke—his blond hair and broad shoulders, hands folded behind his back—Tony's old damaged heart skipped a beat. It was an anomaly that had never occurred before, a glitch in the system, he was sure. Because the well-to-do money holding men and women of the world that played 'guest of the night' in Tony's bed were rarely attractive, and they most certainly never looked that innocent.

The Duke—whatever his name was—looked like a basket of puppies in human form. Tony imagined, vividly, the Duke helping an old lady to cross the street, and that was all sorts of wrong because it was far easier to do his job if he thought of it as just that—a job, a duty that he could finish and be done with.

Mr. Bulging Muscles and Baby Blues was doing Tony no favors with his whole 'wouldn't it be nice to touch me' hot guy act.

As Tony approached, the Duke turned and treated him to a wide but nervous smile.

"Hello," he greeted, extending his hand.

As Tony was usually greeted with a tongue down his throat and an eager hand groping his ass, the handshake came as a welcome surprise. That is, until he accepted it and felt the man's warmth and calluses under his fingertips. A hand had no right to feel that good.

Tony covered his very near slip with a charming smile and a wave of his hand toward the private bar. "Hello, gorgeous. Can I get you a drink?"

The Duke shook his head. "I—no, thank you." His hands dropped to his sides, fists clenching and unclenching in what was clearly a display of nerves. Well, Tony would just have to fix that—first time clients were, after all, the easiest to manipulate. Show them a good time and they would practically throw their money at you.

"Well if you don't mind." He was halfway through pouring himself a glass of scotch when the Duke said,

"I'd like to just get started, if that's alright."

Tony willed himself not to look disappointed. He damn well should have known that the good guy act was a front; good men didn't require sex just to settle a business deal. Still, he'd hoped for more time; was it so difficult to have a drink and appreciate the view for ten seconds before his pants came off?

"Of course," he replied. He set down his drink and in two strides, was face to face with the Duke in the middle of the room. He slid his arms around the man's neck. "Let's get to it then."

The Duke's face turned a bright, scarlet red.

Tony had never claimed to be a rational man—a genius, yes; a visionary, certainly—but it would have taken the will power of a well-trained army to resist a blush like that. Pressing his mouth firmly to the the Duke's, he slid his hands down to the man's belt loop and began pulling him toward the bed.

Might as well get it over with before he let himself start believing they were both people here and not a man with his purchased goods.

Steve had come up to Tony's room for a poetry reading. In retrospect, perhaps he should have known that it was euphemism, but, as a passionate advocate for the power of words, he'd let himself believe that poetry—that writing—could actually be a means to business. Apparently, the world no longer worked like that. Gone were the days where countries could be formed through written declarations and wars ended with prose. Steve was not so naive as to believe that the world was all rainbows and happy endings, but it still came as some disappointment to be met with the truth face to face: sex and money made the world go round.

Given, Steve was no prude. While still technically a virgin (his sickly status as a teenager had done little to boost his love life), he was not ashamed or frightened by his—or any other person's—sexual nature. Two men were still taboo in that day and age, of course, and he could hardly go screaming his sexuality to the hills, but perhaps that was another perk of SHIELD: here, no one cared. Here, no one looked twice.

So if Steve spent a little longer than he was proud of staring at the man who led the show, the great Tony Stark, well, no one questioned it (though Steve did a million times), and certainly no one said a word when he went up to the man's room alone. Surely, they knew what he was going up there for—better, apparently, than did he.

Steve had come to Tony's room for a poetry reading, and somewhere along the lines, he seemed to have propositioned the man for sex instead. In a perfect world, Steve would have pulled away at once; he was not the sort of person (or at least he had not thought that he was the sort of person) to pay for sex, and even if he was, he didn't have a penny with which to do so. To go through with anything would be theft, and Steve wondered briefly what a kiss would even cost him. And then Tony was kissing him, and it was soft and wet and wonderful, and he quite forgot about his empty pockets.

A kiss like that was worth the world.

It wasn't until Steve's legs collided with the bed frame that he came to his senses and pulled away. Tony expression was, understandably, confused, but Steve could also sense a firm determination beyond those big brown eyes.

Gosh, those eyes were going to be the death of him.

Poetry. He was supposed to be reciting poetry. Right. "It's a little bit funny, these feelings inside. I'm not one of those who can easily hide." The words came from Steve's lips muffled and jumbled, and it only made his blush all that much brighter, a misfortune not helped by the fact that Tony was now raking his eyes over Steve's entire body and stopping at his crotch.

That had not been the "feeling" he'd meant, but he could certainly feel it now. Trying and failing to ignore the tightening of his pants, Steve moved away and went to stand by the window.

The view was unbelievable—all of Paris just waiting in the distance—and though he wished he could enjoy it, Steve knew he would have been quite content to turn around and stare at Tony all night instead.

He cleared his throat and tried again. "I don't have much money, but boy if I did, I'd buy a big house where we both could live." Tony was staring at him now with his arms crossed over his chest and an eyebrow raised. Steve heaved a deep breath but refused to look away. "If I was a sculptor, but then again, no, or a man who makes potions in a traveling show. I know it's not much but it's the best I can do. It may be quite simple but now that it's done, I hope you don't mind that I put down in words how wonderful life is while you're in the world."

Tony, finally, smiled. Steve noticed that it was different from the smile he wore on stage—less orchestrated and more loose, lopsided even—and Steve found that he liked a million times better. "You really did mean poetry," Tony said. "A duke and an artist. Who did you sell your soul to to win a genetic lottery like that?"

"Same person you did. You're perfect," Steve blurted out before he could stop himself. Tony's smile widened, and Steve might have tried to freeze that moment forever (or at least pause it long enough to copy it down on paper) but at that moment, he fully registered what Tony had said. "Duke?" he repeated. "I'm not a duke. I'm a writer. I came to talk to you about the play. Spectacular, Spectacular."

Tony's smile dropped instantly.

An uneasy crawling sensation erupted over Steve's skin and his heart dropped. Tony thought he had money. Of course he did. Why would he ever waste his time on a penniless writer? Perhaps Steve could still salvage the deal and pull together some funding for the play—convince Tony of it's worth, as that was part of his job with SHIELD—but Steve's time with Tony was up. A business man of Tony's reputation and importance would never really have time for a man like Steve.

"You're not the Duke?" Tony repeated. He raked a hand through his hair, cursing under his breath, then paced the length of the room. "If you're not the Duke…fuck, why are you even up here? What are you doing? Were you just pretending the whole time?"

"No," Steve insisted. "I wasn't—I just—"

But before Steve could even begin to explain, there was a knock on the door. "Hello," said a voice on the other side. "It's Tiberius Stone, the Duke. I believe we had an appointment."


	5. Chapter 4

Tony had played many roles in his life, but he most certainly would not play the "hooker with a heart of gold" cliche about to run off with the first client nice enough to smile in his direction. So what if this writer (writer, for fuck's sake, not Duke; that dirty puppy dog-eyed liar) smiled like he'd brought the sun down to Earth? So what if he kissed like he was trying to pour his soul out through his lips; he'd still lied, still attempted to coerces a free show out of Tony, and if there was one thing Tony did not do, it was sleep around for free. Sure, he'd had dates—even been stupid enough to think he was in love once with a whirlwind of a girl named Pepper, a hardworking and fearlessly independent woman—but those days, like Pepper, were gone now, just a blip on the radar of his past.

Love was complicated, messy, and disappointing. You plucked out your heart and handed it to a single person to hold and hoped that they wouldn't crush it in their fist when you knew that they were more than capable of doing so. Love, Tony knew, was like putting your hand in a shredder and hoping not to lose a finger—irrational and stupid.

Sex, on the other hand, was easy. Part A into slot B and the less talking the better. Tony wasn't so obsessed with the cold anonymity of his job that he refused to kiss his clients on the mouth or to learn their names or anything (this was hardly an option anyway what with them being clients and all), but he wasn't about to share his life story with every stranger that shared his bed, and he certainly wasn't about to waste his time having sex with anyone for free when he had so many potential customers knocking down his door day and night.

The writer was cute, and yes, Tony might just be daydreaming about his smile while he did his business with the Duke later (distractions were often necessary with the general, well, size, and look of his customers), but that was simply a technicality that couldn't be help (seriously, if Tony could wipe out these stupid little things people called "feelings" he would, no doubts about it). Tony was only human, and even he wasn't immune to a smile like that—warm and inviting with the slightest touch of nerves that were almost—almost but not entirely—drowned out by the sheer will of the man's determination. It was the sort of smile that made you think you could do anything, the sort of smile that should be on billboards, or lead armies to peace.

It was also a beautiful lie.

Poetry and compliments could get you far in life, especially if you knew how to work them, and this writer clearly did, but they were simply frosting on a poorly baked cake—the pretty show to make you forget you were being tricked. And Tony refused to play the fool.

Of course the writer was playing him (maybe he'd started to fall for it, but just barely, and anyway, who wouldn't; the man recited poetry like he was born to do it, and those big blue eyes only sealed the deal). But pretty faces and pretty words meant nothing in the real world's cruel reality; people only wanted two things in this world, power and money, and Tony had been about to present the writer with both.

The problem came not with removing the writer from his room as that would have been easy enough (one call to Rhodey and the poet would be out on his ass in the rain; or, with the way his anger was currently rising, Tony wasn't completely against kicking him out himself and making him leave down the balcony. Good luck climbing, buddy). No, the hard part came with a knock on the door and the arrival of the real Duke—an important and paying customer who could not, under any circumstances, see the writer parading around in his position.

Tony grabbed the writer by the man's unfortunately muscular and as-perfect-as-the-rest-of-him arm and pushed him behind the bar. "Stay," he hissed.

The poet seemed for a moment on the verge of protest, his kiss-bruised lips parting slightly, but before he could say a word, Tony had crossed the room and pulled open the door. "Duke," he greeted, old grin back in place.

On surface level only, Tiberius Stone, the Duke, fit Steve's general description, and Tony could easily justify his earlier confusion; the man was tall and blond, and wearing a nicely pressed suit and top hat. He was attractive but not excessively so, and he wore a smile that never quite reached his eyes. Even as he shook Tony's hand, his gaze raked over Tony's body then immediately looked past him, taking in the many details of the room.

Not once did he meet Tony's eyes.

Tony was rather used to being treated like property, and though he told himself he preferred it this way, the writer's longing gaze and bright hopeful smile still lingered in his subconscious, making it much harder to face the Duke than it needed to be. Just another reason to add to the list of why he was beginning to (wish he could) hate the blue-eyed word-spinning fraud.

"Nice place," said Tiberius. He reached out a hand to stroke over Tony's collar and was beginning to take off his dress shirt when there was commotion from behind the bar and a blur of blond hair peeked out from the corner of Tony's peripheral vision.

Tony immediately faked a loud cough to cover the noise and then turned to glare daggers at the bar's direction. "You ever seen Paris at night?" he said, taking the Duke's hand in his and leading him to the balcony; if only he could get him away from the door, then the writer could escape with his head still firmly in place.

"I have," the Duke replied, looking thoroughly uninterested in the balcony. Rather than follow Tony's lead, he tugged him instead toward the bed—just another overly eager, impersonal client.

"Ohhh," Tony said, voice low and dripping in a tone of forced excitement that came both from years of practice and from having a business man for a father. He fell back onto the bed and pulled the Duke with him, making sure to position them both so the Duke's back was turned to the door and his eyes were all on Tony.

It was the perfect getaway and yet the writer did no more than climb out from behind the bar. He didn't run for it, didn't even tiptoe toward the door; he just stood there, staring at Tony and the Duke as Tiberius sucked a dark hickey into Tony's neck.

'Get out,' Tony mouthed, but the writer didn't budge. His eyebrows narrowed and his frown deepened making him look more like an oversized and kicked puppy than ever.

Tony simply had no choice. In that same silky, lustful tone that had brought the Duke to bed, he whispered the words that would get him out of it: "You're right. We should wait. You have so much business to do here. You'll want to see the play and all the projects you're sponsoring finished before we celebrate."

The Duke looked both confused and irritated; the writer beamed behind his back. Tony silently groaned.

Jumping up off the bed, he dragged Tiberius by the arm and led him back to and out of the door. "I can't wait," he promised, grinning, and before the Duke say a word in response, Tony closed the door in his face.

He was so, so fired.

* * *

Steve's mother had taught him not to hate, that it was too strong of a word and that while he could like or dislike anything he wanted, hatred was simply uncalled for. It was a motto he had spent his life trying to abide by, and he could count on his fingers all the things in this world he actually and completely hated: bullies, broken pencils, dirty umps, and Tiberius Stone.

The Duke walked into the room like he owned the place and he left it with a look of the upmost contempt. His entire time within the room—a beautiful, surprisingly homey, elaborately designed room that should have been treated with respect—was spent staring at the not yet rumpled sheets of the bed, and, rather than appreciating the beautiful man in front of him, Tiberius stared at Tony like something to own—like something to break.

Steve might have only known Tony for a night—a few hours at that—but he was certain in that moment that he would never let anyone break Tony again.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Tony asked, rounding on Steve the second the door slammed behind the Duke's back. "You can't do that! You have no right to come in here and—"

"Why?" Steve asked. His mother had also taught him not to interrupt people while they were speaking, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and with a stubborn streak a mile wide, it was hardly a lesson that had stuck. "Why him? Why would you do…that?"

"Because it's my job! Don't look so fucking surprised by it. You were up here for the same reason," Tony snapped.

Steve's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "What? No, I wasn't. I was up here for a poetry reading—"

"Yeah, I got that. 'A poetry reading,'" Tony said, forming air quotes around the last three words, his voice dripping in sarcasm.

"I was," Steve said honestly. "Natasha-"

"Who?"

"She's part of the Avengers."

"The what?"

"They're a group of actors," Steve explained. "That's why I'm here. To pitch you their new play. It's called Spectacular Spectacular, and it's pretty good, and they thought if I talked to you, you'd see that it's worth investing in, and—"

"I don't pick who or what we invest it," Tony said. He glanced at the door, no doubt imagining the Duke standing beyond it. "They do. He does. And people like him. And sometimes they need a little push to open their wallets."

So that was Tony's job; the incentive for the rich men and women of Paris, a little perk to convince them to invest in the future. Steve couldn't imagine doing what Tony did—day after day, night after night, all to fund someone else's dream. His heart swelled a little more for the man who, for all rational intents and purposes, should have been a stranger to him, and yet here he was, wanting to wrap Tony up in a blanket and steal him away from this cold, unfair world.

"Anyway," Tony continued before Steve's plan could grow to anything more than a basic 'get rid of bad guys, help Tony.' "He's already invested. Or at least, he was going to. After I pitched your play during the show, he asked Fury about the script. He read it and he liked it, and he was willing to invest on that and my reactor, except now, because of you, I've blown it and—"

"Your reactor?" Steve asked.

Tony rubbed at the center of his chest then shrugged dismissively. "Yeah, it's just…a project I've been working on. Clean energy for the factories and…other stuff. Anyway, like I was saying—"

Steve cut him off with an impressed whistle. "Tony, that's amazing." He was not just saying it to be polite; he'd seen the damage the factories were reeking on the world, seen the soot and darkened clouds over the city. The very idea that a single man's invention could make that all disappear was not only amazing but damn absolutely mind-blowing. If it worked, an invention like that could change the world.

Tony smiled, and Steve mentally catalogued it as the second time he'd managed to earn a sincere smile from the man who faked pleasure for a living.

And then, as though coming out of a daze, Tony's eyes suddenly narrowed and he shook his head. "You need to get out of here," he said, grabbing Steve's arm.

Steve followed without protest as he was led, just as Tiberius had been, out the door. "I wasn't lying," he said, leaning against the entryway. Up close, he could spot a single freckle on Tony's nose, and for some reason he couldn't quite explain—and wasn't even sure he wanted to—this made him smile. "Back before, when you thought I was the Duke. I wasn't lying to you. I wasn't trying to trick you. I was just as confused as you were. And I-you deserve better than this, Tony. Than all of this. You know that, don't you?"

Tony gave him a rather unconvinced glare though Steve could have sworn he saw a smile flickering underneath. "Stop doing that," he said in a would be reprimanding voice except that it sounded undeniably fond.

"Stop what?" Steve asked.

"Using my first name. No one said you could do that. And I don't even know yours."

"Steve," he replied immediately. "Steve Rogers."

Tony's eyes narrowed. "Bye Steve, Steve Rogers," he said, and then he promptly slammed the door in Steve's face.

As Steve leaned against the other side, goofy smile crossing over his lips, he thought he heard Tony sigh—a sound as light and happy as everything Steve was currently feeling inside.


	6. Chapter 5

The next day, SHIELD called the Avengers to tell them they'd opened a room for their rehearsals; an hour later, Steve stood on the largest stage he'd ever seen while he watched a dozen different crew members rush around painting sets and setting up the lights. Extras were cast and where each of the Avengers had once played a handful of roles each, they now only acted as one single (and prominent) character each while their extra rolls had been handed off to one of the many performers that SHIELD had to offer. Steve had given up trying to hide his surprise; by then, his jaw seemed permanently stuck open, and his eyes we're watering from how often they'd shot open wide in shock or awe over the last hour. SHIELD, for all its debauchery and questionable ethics, was nothing if not thorough.

The Duke (Steve found it easier to address him by his title than his name) sat in the audience on a thin wooden chair, one leg crossed over the other and his hands in his lap. He, like Steve, had swapped out his previous night's suit but, unlike Steve who was dressed in an ink-splattered t-shirt and ripped pants, the Duke was dressed in a pair of slacks and a shirt that Steve was sure must of cost more than an entire year's rent in his apartment.

The Duke, although likely to frown or critique even the slightest color variation of the backdrops if they were not to his liking, actually seemed rather excited over the whole idea and on more than once occasion, he gestured Steve over to describe the script "just one more time." When he saw a costume he liked (and SHIELD had many costumes), the Duke stood up and nodded with royal like approval; when he heard a song he enjoyed, he clapped and asked for Thor to play it again; when a particular line struck his fancy, he 'awed' quietly and looked just a bit smugger and sat up just a bit straighter.

Steve might be writing it and the Avengers might be acting it, but the play was the Duke's. He certainly wouldn't let them forget it.

The seamstress approached Steve with a collection of bright red, white, and blue fabrics and several needles at the same time that the back door swung open, and Tony stepped into the hall. He must have replaced all of the air in the room because suddenly Steve found it quite difficult to breathe.

Tony settled down in the stands as far away from Tiberius as the room would allow, but it was no use; the Duke, spotting his "prize," it seemed, jumped from his seat and settled instead by Tony's side. He became instantly affectionate, bumping shoulders with the smaller man and whispering in his ear.

Tony nodded occasionally, smiled and laughed where it must have been appropriate (Steve could not hear their conversation from the stage), but not once did Tony focus his gaze on his "client," not even for a second; for the entire length of their conversation, Tony's eyes were fixed on the stage, fixed on Steve.

Steve could pretend this didn't affect him, pretend that his heart wasn't beating out of his chest or that his palms hadn't started sweating from the intensity of Tony's gaze, but what good would it do him? For all it mattered, he was a five-foot asthmatic kid all over again, and the popular kid was staring at him. Why was he staring at him?

Granted, he wasn't the only one. While Tony's attentions were definitely the most distracting, Steve couldn't help but notice that another man—a dark-skinned, strong looking fellow who was adjusting some of the stage lights—continuously glared in Steve's direction, then at Tony, then back at Steve. It was a repeating pattern that seemed to grow more and more serious with every passing moment.

The seamstress accidentally poked Steve's thigh with her needle, and the pain came through like a lightbulb to his brain, sparking a renewed realization of what he already knew but wished to forget. Tony might be staring at Steve, but the world was staring at Tony. The Duke's arm was wrapped tightly around Tony's shoulder, and the man with the lights glared even harder—of course he was jealous, of course he was suspicious, this was Tony Stark they were talking about. Nick Fury stood in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest, Clint and Natasha shared amused looks in Steve's direction, and in that moment, Steve saw what he was sure everyone else had already seen: when it came to Tony Stark, he was frighteningly and embarrassingly out of his league.

* * *

If looks could kill, Rhodey would have had Steve dead on the stage hours ago. Between evading Tiberius' advances (he soon insisted that Tony call him Ty) and pacifying Rhodey, Tony hadn't had a second to himself all day. His afternoon had been filled primarily with a varying string of promises: Yes, Platypus, I'll be careful; No, Honeybear, I don't even like him, he's a writer; No, Muffin, I won't stop with the nicknames; Did you seriously just take a swing at me? Do you know how much this face is worth? I'm telling Fury. When Tony wasn't arguing with Rhodey, he was trying not to cringe every time "Ty" stroked his thigh or he was overseeing the work on the play, or meeting with other potential investors. And then, when this was finished and Tony had somehow managed to escape his overbearing best friend and his overly affectionate cliental, there was Fury—hovering, demanding, 'I'm watching you, Stark' Fury breathing down his neck. All in all, it wasn't exactly what he'd call a "relaxing day" and any plans he'd had to finally get to work on improving the reactor vanished with yet another knock on his door.

"What? What do you want? I've signed all your papers. I've been to all your meetings, I've smiled and played the game. For the love of—" Tony broke off mid-rant as he opened the door and found himself face to face with Steve.

The poet blushed a deep shade of pink and ran a calloused hand through his hair. His bangs flopped back into his face, a sort of overgrown style that spoke of poverty and the lower class, and yet Tony wouldn't change a thing. The style fitted Steve, and all Tony really wanted to do was run his fingers through it.

And there it was: bad idea number one, his imagination getting away with him, carrying him off into the danger zone, the do-not-cross, the no-no area of feelings and impulsive urges that he had to keep under control if he ever wanted to stand a chance against this guy's charms.

"Sorry I—if you're busy, I can leave," Steve said, one word stumbling after the other.

Tony meant to say yes, meant to kick him out and return to his work, meant to tell him not to come back and that he had no business showing up at his room out of the blue anyway—this place was for clients and friends only and as Steve was neither of those, he should go and they'd see each other only in the professional setting of the SHIELD rehearsal room. Tony meant to say all of this, but what he really said was, "No, I'm not busy. What can I do for you? I still don't give free rides, you know."

Steve's blush darkened, but he stepped forward with renewed determination. "I'm not here for that. I was never here for that."

"So you keep saying."

"So it keeps being the truth." Steve crossed his arms over his chest and suddenly his expression was nothing but serious. "I know that's part of your job, and that's…fine, but it's not the only part of your job, is it? The way you talk, you'd think that's all you do. I'm not interested in sex, free or not—"

Tony raised an eyebrow. "You're not interested in sex?"

"Well I'm interested in the concept."

"The concept?"

Steve rubbed at the back of his neck; it was steadily growing a darker shade of red, and, really, that had no business being as cute as it was. It was a blush for fuck's sake; since when did Tony have a blush fetish?

"Yes, the-the concept," Steve continued. "I'm interested in having sex one day with the right person. Or when the opportunity presents itself. All I'm saying is that I'm not after sex here. Between me and you. Anyway, it seems like you have your hands full. Between the Duke and the lighting guy that couldn't stop staring at you…is he your boyfriend?"

The lighting guy…oh. Rhodey.

Tony doubled over laughing, gripping at his sides when it felt like his whole body might burst with the force of his amusement. Rhodey, his boyfriend?

Still gasping for air, he straightened up to see Steve looking both confused and perhaps a bit pleased.

"Rhodey's my friend," Tony explained. "The light guy. His name's Rhodey. And we're friends, just friends."

"Oh," Steve said. The 'pleased' part of his expression was definitely beginning to override the confusion. "Well good. I…good."

"Good," Tony repeated, and okay, his brain was beginning to short out here—clearly—and he was a genius for crying out loud, so what in the world was that? Good? Stumbling around and forgetting his words like teenaged kid? If there was one thing Tony did well, it was speak. He was Tony Fucking Stark, the symbol of charm and sophistication, and he was standing here in his sweats and an oiled stained tank top stuttering "good"?

Oh, he was in trouble now.

"You know, you smile different when you're alone then when you're up on stage," Steve said suddenly. He reached out a hand and traced his fingers over the corners of Tony's mouth, feeling the curves, the slight scar under Tony's bottom lip, and the edges of his goatee.

Tony tried to bite down the smile, to stuff it away like he did with every other unwanted emotion—all pushed away into that box in his mind marked 'Do Not Open' and left for dead. But try as he might, Tony just could't turn that smile upside down (that wasn't exactly how the saying went, was it?). He did tense, however, and the very second his body stiffened—the moment he so much as breathed differently—Steve pulled away, polite and respectful as ever.

It was a terrible idea, an idea that was an insult to his genius, a shameful blight on his sanity, on his family and his ancestors and his cow, if, of course, he had any of those things, but before he could stop himself, Tony was blurting out, "We should have sex" and Steve's eyes went wide as dinner plates.

"What?" he asked, and Tony found some slight comfort in the fact that he'd reduced the wordsmith himself to almost wordless disbelief.

"You and me. The bed. You know, sex. You do know what sex is right?" Tony teased. He tried to sound airy, casual; hey, you and me, a little roll in the sheets, how 'bout it? It was no big deal; sex was sex, and sure, it was free, but every good business threw out a freebee now and again, and anyway, if he ever wanted to get over this, well, whatever it was that made his heart start pounding whenever Steve came near, then he needed to get the man out of his system. One good night to leave it all behind. It was strategic.

Oh, who was he kidding? Steve was six feet two inches of endless muscle and warm smiles, big hands that made every touch feel like the first time, and Tony was no blushing virgin, thank you very much, but he wasn't blind, and he certainly wasn't against being touched like he actually mattered, like his whole existence wasn't just a series of business deals.

Currently, Steve was staring at him like he had two heads which, okay, was understandable, but not exactly flattering. Tony waved his hand in front of the writer's face and waited for a reaction.

Steve blinked then, finally, said, "No."

All the small hopeful parts of Tony—the ones that had survived so many years of abuse and neglect and were barely holding on by a thread here—all fell apart at once. Tony was not yet so far gone that he thought sex was the only worthy factor in a relationship, but he did know that relationships and him did not go hand in hand, and sex was the only thing in the world he had left to offer. Tony was good at sex—sex came naturally, but the other stuff—talking about your feeling, and remembering anniversaries, and trust? Not so much.

"Not that I wouldn't like to," Steve amended. "I just don't want to be a client. I don't want to—I want to hear about your reactor." Steve switched tactics in a heartbeat, suddenly stepping into the room and looking around the room with more interest than those poor old walls had ever seen.

"My reactor?" Tony repeated. If it was supposed to be some sort of euphemism, it sure was a poor one, and certainly not one he'd ever heard before.

"Yeah. You said it could power the factories without pollution, right? It sounds fascinating. I…could you show it to me?" Steve's face was just so damn hopeful that Tony couldn't find it in himself to say no.

Nodding, Tony led the other man over to his work desk where a stack of blueprints were laid out haphazardly along with the metal pieces and wires of a dozen unfinished projects. In the center lay the reactor—a bright blue light encased in a metal he was working to make indestructible, but the technology of his time was limited and his time even more so. Still, the power was evident, and the light itself enough to illuminate the whole room. And that was just when it was sitting around; he could only imagine what it would look like when it powered the world.

Steve's jaw dropped slightly and his hands darted out in what seemed to be an instinctive need to touch, to feel the wonder he was seeing. Tony knew the feeling well enough himself.

"Go ahead," he said, taking Steve's hand in his and leading it across the reactor. Though he knew, rationally, it was the power source beneath their fingertips that sent a jolt of energy rushing through his veins, he couldn't help but at least partially blame Steve's close proximity and that world-changing sensation of skin on skin.

Steve must have felt it too because at that very moment, every muscle in his body tensed; Tony could feel each and every one of the man's many, many muscles pressed against his chest, and then Steve was turning, his whole body twisting until they were face to face and chest to chest, and if there was air in the room, it was gone now—either that, or Tony had simply forgotten how to breathe. Both seemed perfectly rational.

"Can I kiss you?" Steve asked, and yeah, he sounded breathless too.

"I'm not that kind of hooker," Tony replied.

"Is that a no?"

"It's definitely a yes."

"You're confusing," Steve said.

Tony laughed slightly. "I know. Just kiss me already."

Steve's hesitation, so very present just a moment ago, seemed nonexistent now as he pressed his lips firmly against Tony's. It was soft and chaste, and yet, somehow, unbelievably intimate. Soon, Steve's mouth parted, granting Tony's tongue entrance and they toppled backwards onto the bed, Steve landing on his back and Tony straddling his waist. His fingers wandered down Steve's body, but just as he reached the man's belt-buckle, Steve reached out a hand to him.

"We don't have to," he whispered. His eyes met Tony's—blue on brown—and Tony, stubborn and stupid as he was, refused to drop his gaze. Not yet. Not ever if he could help it. He could already feel himself growing lost in those eyes.

Oh yeah, he was definitely screwed.

"I know we don't have to. That's the best part," he said. He leaned down and sucked a hickey into Steve's collarbone, reveling in the pornstar-esque moan it elicited from the man's throat.

"Tony," he said, his hands gripping tight at the bedsheets, then his own chest, then Tony's hips where, finally, it seemed, he was content to stay.

Tony had heard his named yelled out by many men and women over the years—Stark more so than Tony, and stream of 'yes, yes, yes' more than anything at all; his name was worn out and used, and after a while, the ecstatic shout sort of lost its meaning—after all, his "clients" had generally only learned his name an hour before when they were entering the room. Come morning, his name was tired on their lips, and their lazy, sated smiles promised nothing but a shared memory—a past Tony would spend years trying to forget.

When Steve came, his back arched, and Tony's name soft on his lips, Tony heard the future for the very first time.


	7. Chapter 6

Steve hadn't slept so well in years. The mattress under his back had something to do with it, he was sure. It was soft and expensively built where his bed at home was lumpy and broken; the sheets were made of something unbelievably smooth—silk, probably—and the pillow had clearly been plucked from a cloud. The bed was amazing, and while Steve was positive that it played at least a small role in his endless comfort, his current happiness had had a lot more to do with the man beside him.

Tony Stark was a whirlwind when he was awake—fast thoughts and bright ideas, plastered smile and twinkling eyes; asleep, he was nothing more than an oversized kitten. Tony's face was more open when he slept than Steve had ever seen in it awake, on stage or not. His head against Steve's shoulder, Tony wore a loose, easy smile, and his hands were no longer clenched like weapons at his sides but wrapped around Steve's body. He looked, well, peaceful. He looked happy.

As Tony clung to Steve, his nose occasionally scrunching up (adorably) in response to whatever he was dreaming about, Steve made a choice right then and there. For as long as Tony would let him, Steve would forever stay by his side even if it meant staying at SHIELD forever.

That though sparked another, and Steve sat up with a jolt, biting his lip to keep from swearing as he remembered the rehearsals he was currently supposed to be attending. Judging by the time on the clock, he was already a half hour later, and Clint was going to skin him alive (or, more realistically, Natasha would skin him alive, and Clint would watch gleefully).

As Steve carefully wiggled his way out of bed, careful not to wake Tony up, the events of the previous night played back in his head. Images of Tony's back arching up to meet him, of tanned and sweaty skin, of his own shaking limbs and the need—the burning, aching need—to be as close their bodies would allow. Steve would give anything in the world to relive that night.

For the first time, he realized just how good Tony must be at his job, and Steve hoped he wasn't just enough client pulled under his spell.

He couldn't find a pen and paper with which to leave Tony a note, but he figured they saw each other around enough already; Tony would find him. Sooner rather than later if Steve's overeager imagination had anything to do with it. Hurrying out of Tony's room and back down to the rehearsal space, Steve once again replayed their encounter over in his mind, searching this time for a sign he might have missed, anything that might suggest that their night together was anything less than sincere. Tony was an actor, a salesman—charming when he wanted to be and endlessly talented at putting on a show; Steve knew this well enough, and yet he just couldn't understand how anything they had shared could have been faked.

It wasn't just the sex. If it had been, Steve might have been able to imagine a world where it was forced, a situation where the physical act between them was orchestrated or unwanted. But it had been Tony's eyes—that bright, hopeful glow that was still distracting so much of Steve's attention.

In front of him, he saw Clint dressed in a ridiculous purple costume, saw Natasha glaring at them both in black and red, saw Bruce in his bulky green attire, and heard them all yelling at him to pay attention—to "come back to the real world, Cap." But he could also see Tony's heavy-lidded eyes as he leaned back into the bed, saw that twitch of a smile on his lips each and every time Steve kissed him, and heard Steve's name on the inventor's lips.

On stage, Steve recited a line about death and despair and though he tried to sound rightly devastated, the sight of Tony's hands on his hips kept floating back to him, and even his best efforts couldn't stop him smiling.

* * *

Tony woke up alone. He expected this, of course—no one he went to bed with had ever stayed until morning—but at least when he woke up, there was usually a signed contract or some money on the bedside still checked, stupidly, for a note or a token or some little sign that Steve hadn't forgotten about him—a sign that the previous night had meant something, but he came up empty handed.

Well, he'd always known he was a fool. What was another notch in his bedpost?

Laying back, Tony looked at the place beside him where Steve had been just hours before. He imagined the man's body beneath him, imagined those big hands pressing against his hips, and the ragged breathing of a lover too far gone, a man tumbling over the edge. Tony could still vividly remember the burst of happiness that had swelled in his chest at Steve's first, wavering kiss. The feeling, like Steve, was gone now, and the memories were nothing but painful reminders of what would never be.

The problem was, the night hadn't felt like just another notch in his bedpost, like another conquest, another "job." Tony had long given up hope that he'd find someone worthwhile in his line of occupation, given up dreaming that a touch in the night meant love when he knew all it really meant was lust. That sort of attitude was easy when his clients rarely ever kissed him, when their touches were harsh and forced, when they failed to even look him in the eye. They took, and he let them, and that was all there was to it because that was all he'd ever be good for. When this job—when this life—was his only chance, his only source to fund his future, what other choice did he have?

But Steve had looked him in the eye, and for everything Steve had taken, he'd given double in return. Steve touched like it was the first and last time he ever would, like every brush of his fingertips along Tony's spine had been a gift, and the look in his eyes was something damn close to loving.

And that was where Tony was stuck. Because a lot of people might like Tony—Fury for the money he could provide him; Rhodey for the company; his clients for a good fuck—but no one had ever loved him. He was positive his parents never had—they'd told him as much. Maybe Pepper had once upon a time, but, like a cheap match, it had been nothing more than a flicker—a glimpse of something that was quickly smothered out. Hell, Tony didn't even love Tony. Tony didn't even like Tony.

Steve, for all his tender touches and loving kisses, was barely more than a stranger. Tony knew nothing about him—not his family or his origins (probably American, New York, maybe, judging by the accent—and damn it, Tony really shouldn't be thinking about these things). Even if he did know Steve, he knew better than to trust another artist down on their luck—been there, done that, and in the end, they only wanted one thing: money. Tony was a lot of things, but he sure as hell wasn't a bank.

Rising from his bed, Tony ripped off the sheets and threw them into the laundry; he could still smell Steve in the fabric, and that was simply unacceptable. Tony always had been a fan of the 'hide the problem away and pretend it doesn't exist until your heart hardens enough to forget about it' approach.

He got dressed (pointedly not thinking about the bruises Steve had left on his hips—seriously, he wasn't) then headed down to the rehearsal room to meet with the Duke. He found Tiberus—Ty, whatever—lounging in a seat two rows from the back.

"Tony!" he greeted, rising to his feet and embracing him with an altogether unnecessary hug that went on a minute, at least, too long. With the tightness of Ty's limbs around him, it felt more like he was a piece of meat being pressed and packaged for delivery than a genuine act of affection.

"Ty!" Tony greeted in return, grinning with enthusiasm. If the Duke caught the sarcasm of the gesture, he chose not to comment. "I was hoping I could talk to you about the reactor. I've made some adjustments and—"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you'd like," Ty said, waving away Tony's words with a simple flip of his hand. He slid an arm around Tony's shoulder then turned to watch as the Avengers practiced for their upcoming play.

Tony spotted Steve backstage—just a glimpse of blond hair peeking out from behind a painting of a mountainscape.

"Right," Tony said. He wiggled out from under Ty's arm. "Well, I'll be getting back to work then."

"No, no, stay!" Ty insisted, still without looking at him, his arm weaving its way back around Tony's shoulders. He squeezed the back of Tony's neck—a controlling, warning gesture that quite contradicted his friendly tone.

So Tony stayed, and for the next hour and a half he was treated to the 'Tiberius Stone' show, AKA an enthusiastic lecture about the Duke's incredibly dull life. Ty told the story well enough—with flittering hand gestures and a tone that oozed charisma—but it was all just a great ad for a hopeless product. In his thirty-two or so years of life, the Duke had done absolutely nothing worth mentioning. He'd inherited a lot of money from his father. He'd met several interesting women on his travels. He'd tried to be an inventor but "left that life behind" (code word for he failed), and now here he was—buying and controlling the invented ideas of others. Tony had heard better.

Hell, Tony had lived better.

Sure, his job wasn't ideal and his lifestyle was questionable by almost all moral standards, but at least at the end of the day he did what he loved, and he did it well. Where Tiberius piggybacked on others' ideas, Tony made his own, and in a sea full of faults and failures, it was the life raft that still kept him floating after all these years.

Rehearsals ended just as Tiberius was wrapping up the tale of his first great investment in Italy. "Wow, will you look at the time," he said, looking first at the exiting actors and then at his wristwatch. "I have to get ready for my lunch with the prime minister."

Tony forced a smile and waved goodbye. Grabbing his blueprints off the floor—his ignored attempts to engage the Duke in conversation about the reactor—he rose from his seat and headed back toward his room. He was halfway down the hall when a familiar, calloused hand grabbed his arm and dragged behind a nearby pillar.

Soft lips collided against his, and Tony blinked up at the grinning form of Steve Rogers, still clad in his ridiculous red, white, and blue costume.

"Um, hi?" Tony tried.

Steve's smile widened. "Hi," he repeated. He leaned in as though to kiss him again, but Tony—his Steve-struck mind finally catching up—raised a hand to stop him.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I—" Steve faltered. "Last night you said I could kiss you. Did that change?"

Tony blinked. "You still want to kiss me?"

"Of course I still want to kiss you." Steve's nose crinkled up in an adorable, puppy-like confusion that did funny things to Tony's broken heart. "Do you not want to kiss me?"

"Yeah, I want to kiss you," Tony blurted out before he had time to over think his words. So much for subtle and avoiding relationships. Steve was obviously conducting some sort of voodoo on his mind; he'd have to check that out, run some tests or something. For science. But there'd be time for that later; right now, all he really wanted was to kiss Steve until he couldn't feel his lips.

Steve melted against him, warm and real and the sort of easy comfort that made Tony want to curl up into his arms and never see the world again. And then, all too soon—because he never did know how to let himself have good things—he was pulling away, bracing himself to say the words that he knew would ruin everything.

"No one can know about this."

Steve winced but didn't exactly look surprised. "I sort of figured you'd say that."

"Really? That's not a deal breaker?" Tony asked.

"I know how this works. I'm not completely clueless, you know," Steve said. He traced a hand over Tony's jaw then left it to rest loosely on the back of his neck. "You have a job. And if you don't keep the Duke happy, your reactor, my play—it all falls apart."

Tony nodded, forcing himself to listen and not completely lose himself in the feel of Steve's hand on his skin. "And...you seem strangely okay with that. I don't know if I should be offended or—"

Steve kissed him, and it felt too good for Tony to be properly annoyed that he'd been shut up mid-sentence. "I didn't say I liked it," Steve corrected him. "If I had it my way, we'd get as far away from this place as possible, and I'd have you all to myself."

"Am I sensing a possessive streak, Rogers?"

"Maybe." Steve blushed slightly, but it seemed more happy this time than truly embarrassed. "I'm just saying I'll take what I can get. Whatever you can give me. I'm not going to push you for anything."

Tony's eyes narrowed. He looked Steve up and down—from his worn out shoes to his recently combed hair, his nervous, hopeful smile. "I won't fall in love with you," Tony warned.

Steve raised his chin defiantly. "How could you already know that? Maybe we could work. You don't know—"

"I know," Tony cut him off. "I know I can't fall in love with anyone."

"A life without love? That's terrible," Steve said.

"Being on the street is terrible. Love makes people stupid. You throw your whole life away to be happy one day. I'm not doing it."

"It could be a good day." Steve smiled, stubborn and annoyingly perfect.

"And then one day, you'll get sick of me and get angry and bitter, and I'll drink all the time," Tony warned him. He thought of his father yelling at his mother through the halls of their mansion before all the money ran out, thought of her subdued cries as she locked herself away, thought of every relationship that hadn't worked out and every stitch in his already broken heart. He didn't have any room left for another rip and tear.

"No I won't," Steve said.

"Nothing will keep us together."

"We could make it work." Steve took a step forward, enveloping Tony in the bulk of his muscular body and the smell of apple-pie.

Tony sighed heavily even as a smile threatened to overtake his cynical expression. "You're going to be bad for business," he said. "I can tell."


	8. Chapter 7

Steve had a plan.

Like most of his plans, it was thought out to the last detail, elaborate and logical, and very likely to work if everything went right. (There was a reason the Avengers had taken to calling him "the man with a plan" ever since he'd stepped in to help their production.) But, also like most of his plans, fate stepped in and absolutely everything went wrong.

Steve and Tony had met under irrational circumstances, and the ones they existed under now were hardly any better; forbidden love might be romantic and exciting in stories, but it was downright impossible in real life. They'd sneak a kiss backstage at rehearsals, and Steve would come to Tony's room each night, but Steve still longed for more. He was desperate to see daylight with Tony, to step beyond SHIELD's doors and find the world at each other's side—sunlight and parks and clothes. Maybe they'd still have to hide their affections from the world, but at least they could spend more than a few stolen seconds in each other's company.

So Steve set up a date. He made food (despite the bare necessities he'd grown up with, Steve had always been fascinated with cooking, and quite talented if he was being completely honest with himself). He found the perfect spot (somewhere outside where the sun was shining, but secluded enough that he could kiss his boyfriend without being condemned for it). And most important, he found a time—a spare hour in the middle of a beautiful Tuesday afternoon where Steve was free from rehearsals and Tony was free from meetings.

Everything was going according to plan—the two sneaking out the back doors of the club—when the Duke caught up to them, grinning from ear to ear. "A day on the town to discuss our progress?" he asked cheerfully.

Steve could feel Ty's suspicions brimming under his smile like a volcano ready to erupt, but his expression never faltered. Steve resented the Duke for a thousand different reasons, but even he had to admit that the man was an excellent actor.

"Yeah, we were just going to see the city, see if we could get generate some new ideas," Tony lied immediately. "Why don't you join us? You can never see too much of Paris, right? Everyday is a new day, always something new to surprise you, and all that jazz? Trust me, you could use the cultural enlightening."

The Duke's smile faltered slightly—taken aback by the jab, no doubt—but he recovered quickly and nodded, grin back in place. "I'd love to," he said.

Tiberius forged ahead, claiming his spot at the front of their party like the leader he claimed to be. Tony shot an apologetic look at Steve behind the Duke's back. He shrugged as though to say 'what other choice did I have?'

Tony was right of course—they had to do anything and everything to remove all the Duke's suspicions, and inviting him along was the most logical way to do it—but it didn't stop the sinking in his chest or the rising anger in his throat. The Duke was testing his patience on a whole new level.

So, rather than having a romantic picnic in the park as Steve had planned, the two followed along in Tiberius' wake, enduring his long lectures about French architecture and his and Tony's competitive banter. Despite all his efforts to keep the Duke happy, it seemed Tony simply couldn't keep his mouth shut when it came to the facts and figures of the world.

"And when Joseph Blundell performed the first successful blood transfusion," Tiberius began a long-winded rant ("James Blundell" Tony corrected); "And in 1878 we got our first vaccines for cholera," Tiberius said sometime after the sun started to set ("1879," Tony huffed, crossing his arms over his chest). This went on for hours; with each fact Tony corrected, Tiberius became more and more determined to prove his own wisdom and lectured them even more.

The only consolation for the disastrous afternoon came when Tony doubled back, allowing the Duke to wander along ahead of them and talking to himself. Tony took one look at the Duke's back—his hands waving around in unappreciated enthusiasm—and had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. "Worst date talk I've ever heard," he joked. He looked at Steve, then at the Duke, then at the streets around them. Then, quick as lightening, he pressed a kiss to Steve's lips and pulled away.

"I know this isn't what you planned," Tony said, "But thank you."

Steve blinked in confusion. "What are you thanking me for?"

Tony shrugged. "Honestly, I haven't left the club in weeks." He gave a small little laugh and rubbed at the back of his neck. "This was sort of the best day I've had in a while."

Steve frowned, aching to kiss Tony again—to keep that smile on his lips forever—or at the very least, to simply hold his hand. But on the busy streets of Paris with the Duke just feet away, it was impossible. He'd have to get used to longing. But there was one thing he knew for sure; if this was going to be the best day of Tony's life, he sure as hell was going to make it worth it.

* * *

Steve Rogers was an idiot.

Tony decided this once and for all when a crash out his window got him racing out of bed at some awful hour of the morning only to find the writer hanging from his balcony like some bad deleted scene out of Romeo and Juliet.

"What are you doing?" Tony asked. He leaned against the balcony doors and watched as Steve grabbed a handhold about five inches from the balcony floor itself.

"Coming to see you," Steve said, blowing a strand of blond hair out of his face. He huffed out a deep, tired breath then swung his body over the last remaining space and clambered to his feet.

"There's a door." Tony pointed behind him.

"There's always people watching the door."

Tony couldn't exactly argue with that. His life was anything but private. "You could have waited for morning," he tried, though the smile on his face sort of countered the critical tone he was aiming for.

"I couldn't wait," Steve said. He was grinning from ear to ear, and Tony wanted to hate it—he really did—but all he could do was grin back helplessly, lost in the spell that was Steve Rogers and his earnest, soul-stealing eyes and big goofy smile. "Come on," he said, nodding his head back over the balcony.

Tony raised an eyebrow. "You want me to climb down that with you in the middle of the night? Are we getting married and committing double suicide too? Should I grab my dagger or the poison?"

Steve rolled his eyes. "Please? Just trust me? I promise it'll be worth it." He shot him the puppy-dog eyed look, the one laced with magic and voodoo and something that made Tony's heart beat too fast and too much until he thought it might burst from the sensation.

Needless to say, he climbed down the balcony (more like tripped down the balcony) and followed Steve stupidly into the night.

Bursting with nervous adrenaline, Steve led them him a flew blocks over to their neighborhood park. There, waiting for them under a large oak tree, was a small picnic, complete with candles and food that, unless Tony was mistaken, looked homemade.

It was cheesy, and romantic, and over the top, and probably the best thing Tony had ever seen in all his life.

"This was what you had planned today?" he asked, and was surprised to find his voice choked. He coughed. Maybe he was coming down with something.

Steve nodded. "Is it okay? I know it's sort of silly, but," He rubbed the back of his neck which was steadily growing pinker under the moonlight. "I thought—"

"It's perfect," Tony assured him.

He grabbed Steve's hand and led them both toward the blanket. They settled down—the only two people in the park—hiding beneath the moonlight, and yet not really hiding at all. Out in the open—out of SHIELD—was better than Tony could have hoped for, and maybe they had to compromise (a secret date under the security of nightfall was hardly the "dream") but it was better than nothing—greater than everything he'd had so far.

Tony stretched out on his side and popped a piece of fruit into his mouth. "You're American, right?" he asked, swallowing. "What are you doing in Paris?"

"Everything's happening here," Steve said. His eyes grew a little wider under the moonlight, a little more star struck, a little more excited. "I've always wanted to write. I thought here I might actually be able to make a career out of it."

"Well you weren't wrong." Tony couldn't help but smile. God knows, he hadn't planned this. He'd been perfectly happy with his life as it was—if not happy, at least necessarily numb. Before Steve showed up with his bright smile and brighter ideas, script in his hand, Tony's life had been all about the next job. He was content to work the club at night and tinker by morning. And maybe it was a lonely life, but get him caught up in a new project, and he could forget all about the aching hole in his heart. Now, there was no going back.

"The play's good," he continued. "You should really write it down." While Tony enjoyed watching the story unfold before him—a new chapter at each rehearsal—he knew it was the sort of play worthy of a future. If they played their cards right, they'd have more than one great show; they could have a tour, a world-wide production, a hit.

At least, Steve could. Tony was living on borrowed time until he finished with the reactor.

"I will," Steve said, reaching for a sandwich. "But I have to know how the story ends first."

Tony laughed lightly. "That was surprisingly deep, Captain," he teased.

Steve reddened. "Oh gosh, you've been talking to Clint, haven't you?"

"Hell yeah, I've been talking to Clint. He's got all the dirt. Do you really dance around the kitchen in your tighty whities before breakfast every morning?"

Steve turned a very interesting shade of scarlet and quickly shoved half his sandwich into his mouth—all the confirmation Tony needed.

Laughing hard, Tony wheezed out, "Fuck, I love you." The words escaped him before he could even think of taking them back. He froze, ready and waiting for the backlash, for the "I thought we were just having fun," the "this is going too fast," and the "I don't feel the same."

But the words never came. Instead, Steve smiled brightly and surged forward, capturing Tony's face in his hands and kissed him hard. "I love you too," he said as he pulled away.

Tony's heart did an odd sort of backflip in his chest. And it was good—perfect even—the night a little brighter, and Steve's warmth close to his side, a homemade dinner before them, and no interruptions. His breath caught in his throat, and it was worth it—that skipped heartbeat, that tightening under his ribcage, that imminent threat that was always present, the risk around every corner. Tony had lived his whole life with a broken heart—figurative and literal in every sense—and if this was how it finally failed him—bursting from too much happiness, then, well, there were worst ways to go.

**Notes:**

So this is the end of the fluff. Warning: all angst and heartache ahead.


	9. Chapter 8

Steve no longer knew what it was like to sleep alone.

His apartment still sat on the outskirts of town, his name on the lease, and his landlady waiting for the next payment (he got it to her, he did, but sometimes it took longer than he'd planned). Inside, his mail still waited on the counters, and there was food (quickly going bad) in the fridge. His bed waited, warm and comfortable (albeit a bit spare in the blanket department) for him to sleep in.

Steve just never used it.

In a perfect world, he would have sold the place entirely, moved out and settled permanently in Tony's place as he spent so much of his time there already. But it was impossible. Not only did the guards stand watch each and every—protecting their money, their investments, their clients' and workers' security—but the Duke stopped by nearly every morning. (Steve spent most of these mornings half dressed and dangling out the window.) Not to mention how suspicious it would be to up and leave his place without giving any of his friends a forwarding address.

Yes, Steve had a home, but, like most days, his home was abandoned as he lounged instead across Tony's bed, naked but for the script in his lap.

Tony was also in his lap, kissing lazily over Steve's thighs, lips moving silently as he read over the next scene. They'd be practicing it at the rehearsal later that afternoon, and, as had become his "style" as of late, Steve had only just written the part the night before.

"So your damsel in distress ends up with the writer over the king, huh? Do I sense some hopes and dreams seeping into your creative works, Rogers?" Tony said finally. He set the script aside and looked up at Steve through his overlong lashes, a wry, amused smile playing over the corners of his mouth.

Steve shrugged and tried to hold back his own grin. "Maybe," he said.

Tony moved over his lap, pressing one last kiss to the inside of Steve's thigh. It sent shivers rushing through every inch of his body, pulsating through every nerve. Tony moved upwards; when he reached Steve's chest, he kissed this too, then his neck, then his jaw, and then his lips. Here, Tony lingered, and for a moment, Steve lost himself in the feeling. Nothing—not the play, not his job, not the future—could break that small, happy bubble they'd created for themselves.

"I'm not a damsel, and I'm certainly not in distress," Tony said as he pulled away.

"Who said you're in it?" Steve asked. He smirked and nodded at the script now sitting on the bedside table. "Now whose ego is seeping into my creative works?"

Tony rolled his eyes. "You'd be an idiot not to write about me." He kissed Steve one last time before he rolled out of bed and began reaching for his clothes. Since Steve had arrived two hours before, they'd become scattered across every inch of the floor.

"Come on." Tony tossed Steve his t-shirt. "You got a big day."

Once they were dressed, the two entered the rehearsal room through separate doors—anything to lesson the suspicion on their current "situation."

Steve hated it with every fiber of his being.

They were practicing the last scene that day—an epic finale where the writer and his love defeated the evil king and ended up together, happy and bound for marriage. The actors were flawless, the set fantastic, and all the while, Tony sat in the audience, mouthing Steve's lines back at him because he knew them all by heart—the only one to read them before they were presented to the cast.

The play was well on its way to perfection, and the opening was just days away.

Normally, the Duke would sit in the front row, reading along with the extra copy of the script that Steve had provided him. Occasionally, he'd clap, smile at a line he found particularly funny, or critique the actors' movements or stance. Today, however, his script sat untouched by his side, and his eyes rested not on the actor currently speaking, but on Steve. Every once and a while, he'd glance back at Tony, who would grin and give him a thumbs up or something else ridiculous, and then Ty would turn back to Steve and glare a little more.

Something was off. Something was wrong.

Steve watched, an uneasy tingling rising under his skin—a feeling only made worse when Tiberius called one of the extras to his side. He and the woman exchanged several whispered coments before he sent her off, and Ty rose to his feet.

"This is all wrong," he said.

All at once, the rehearsal came to a stop. The music ended mid song; the actors all ceased speaking their lines; and from the back of the room, Tony frowned and stood up, working his way to the front of the stage.

"I'm sorry?" Steve frowned at Tiberius.

"This is all wrong," the man repeated. "The ending makes no sense. Why would the courtesan end up with the penniless writer when the Duke is offering her everything she could ever want? It's illogical. I want it changed. It will end with the courtesan and the king together, and you-" he pointed at Steve. "You will no longer be part of the cast. You're all wrong for the character, and I want a new actor in your place."

Steve's jaw dropped. Quickly pulling it back up, he stepped off the stage. "But Tiberius—"

"You will call me Sir." The Duke cut him off with a murderous glare.

"Uh, Sir," Steve corrected himself. "I know all the lines. I wrote all the lines! We've been working on this play for months. I'm a part of this production and the end—"

"The end will change."

"But that doesn't—"

"The end will change." This time it was not the Duke who spoke, but Tony. He had reached the front of the room and now stood by Tiberius' side. He shot Steve a warning look then turned back to the Duke. "We'll work on it. We'll talk. Won't we Steve?"

Under the pointed look Tony gave him, Steve had no other option. He nodded. "We'll work on it."

* * *

"We're not going to work on it!"

Tony stood in Fury's office, his hands raised as he yelled at SHIELD'S director about the ludicrous demands that Duke had raised that afternoon. "Opening night is in three days. We're barely scraping this play together as is. We can't just change it now!"

"We?" Fury asked. He leaned against his desk, eyebrows raised. A tall man, bursting with strength and intimidating, he wore an eye patch over one eye, a black trench coat over his shoulders, and when he spoke, he commanded attention.

Tony rarely ever gave it to him.

"Him. Them, whatever," Tony corrected himself. "Point is, this play is bringing in a lot of money and-"

"You don't care about the money," Fury said. It was not a question but a firm decisive observation.

"Of course I care about the money!" Tony snapped. He thought he did. At least, he used to. He—oh who was he kidding? This was about Steve, and it always had been. This play was the man's baby, and if they lost it now, well, he didn't want to think about the disappointment in those bright blue eyes. "Look, it's stupid. You can't change the end of a play and recast one of the main roles three days before opening night. You just have to tell Tiberius that it's a no. He can go cry in his room and get over it. It's just not going to work. And I'm not going to stand by and keep babying this idiot just so we can—"

"He knows."

"—take a little bit more money out of his pocketbook which, by the way, is pretty much sealed with concrete—"

"Tony!"

"What?" Tony wheeled around, anger written on every line of his face. He opened his mouth to continue arguing, but the look in Fury's eyes stopped him in his tracks. The man didn't just look pissed off—that was par for the course with Fury, and Tony could handle, well, the fury—but this? Fury looked somewhere between sympathetic and scared and that was just plain weird. Tony's heart now beat overtime in his chest, overcompensating for the rush of worry and panic that was now filling him as he asked, again, "What? What do you mean he knows?"

"He knows about you and Steve. He knows, and he's going to pull the funding on the show and the reactor—"

"That's almost finished. I just need—" Tony started, but Fury silenced him with a single raised finger.

"Listen to me," the director snapped. "He's going to take everything. You have to fix this. Tonight. And you'll do whatever he wants. So if the man wants his play changed, we'll change his play. That's the least of our worries right now, do you understand me?"

Tony gulped and nodded. This was it. He'd always known the moment would come, knew that the paradise he'd created with Steve was temporary—a joke he was kidding himself with—a gamble so that for a single moment, when Steve kissed him, when he lay next to him at night, Tony could feel normal, could feel loved.

All good things came to an end. Tony knew that better than most.

Fury turned to leave. "Lock up, will you," he began, but before he'd taken more than a couple of steps, the door slammed open and Steve rushed in.

His hair was a tangled mess, his hands shaking by his sides, and the anger was clear as day on his face—present in dark, pink patches. "I need to talk about the play. A-a writer's conference," he started the normal lie just as Tony shook his head to stop him.

"He knows," he said. He nodded at Fury.

Steve visibly deflated, his shoulders sinking and the worried lines on his brow deepening. The pink in his cheeks only grew darker. "Oh," he said.

Fury rolled his eyes and left the room.

"So does Ty," Tony continued. "He's going to end it all if we don't do what he wants. No more play, no money for you or your friends, nothing."

"The reactor?" Steve asked.

Tony nodded. Steve collapsed into the nearest chair and buried his face in his hands, sighing heavily. Tony watched his shoulders rise and fall and thought of all the burdens those broad shoulders must have supported over the years. He rubbed his hand over Steve's back. "I have to sleep with him tonight."

Steve looked up. His eyes were wider than Tony had ever seen them, bewildered and angry all at once. "What? Why?"

Tony shrugged. "Because it's my job? You knew that. That's the whole point. Keeping everyone happy. That's part of what he's paying for. And if I'm going to cover this up—"

"Cover us up, you mean." Steve crossed his arms over his chest.

"Yeah, Steve, cover us up. You knew that. You know how this game works."

Steve stood up. "It's not a game!"

By that point, Tony's heart, weak as it already was, now beat a drum solo against his ribcage. "Yes it is! That's all it is. Me and you pretending that this work, when all we're doing is playing ourselves. I knew what I was doing before you came in to screw it up. You do what you have to to win, and these are these are the stakes, so if you're out—"

Steve's face softened, and before Tony could say another word, he'd crossed the space between them and was kissing Tony with such force it nearly knocked him off his feet. Steve placed a hand along Tony's spine to steady him, the gentle softness of his touch a firm reminder of everything that had passed between them over the last few months. The memories did nothing to soothe Tony's broken heart.

"I'm not going anywhere," Steve said, pulling back to look Tony in the eye. "If that's what you have to do then, okay. I won't get jealous."

"You will," Tony said.

Steve shook his head. "I won't. I love you. No matter what. That doesn't come with fine print, Tony. I understand. I don't like it, but if-if this is what has to happen." He sighed and leaned down so his forehead rested against Tony's. "I won't get jealous. We're in this together, right?"

Tony nodded.

"Right," Steve said. "Then we'll figure this out. Come what may."


	10. Chapter 9

**Note: Small attempted non-con scene in this chapter. **

Steve was not the jealous type. At least, this is what he told himself over and over again as Tony left for the Duke's private room.

Steve was not jealous.

Nor, apparently, was he a very good liar.

Sitting on the steps of the stage—no longer a rehearsal space now, but the place for their final show—Steve had already devoured two sandwiches and was now starting at the third. Ever since his sudden growth spurt, Steve had been capable of eating tremendous quantities of food. Normally, he refused his well-sized appetite in favor of preserving his small wallet, but SHIELD provided free food, and for the first time, he was taking advantage. As though filling his stomach could fill the ache in his chest, as though stifling his overeager and overworked metabolism could stifle the vulgar, heart-wrenching thoughts that refused to leave his mind.

"Forget the Duke's money. It won't be enough. You'll eat us out of rent," said one of the crew members—a tall, pretty redheaded woman—as she took a seat beside him. She offered him her hand. "Pepper. Pepper Potts." When she smiled, the freckles around her mouth became explicitly clear.

Steve shook her hand while he held tight to his sandwich with his free one. She chuckled. "I'm a friend of Tony's," she said. "Been working at SHIELD longer than he has. You're different than the rest, you know."

Steve raised an eyebrow in confusion. "Different?" he asked.

Pepper nodded. "Different. You're certainly not a client. He never stops talking about you. After tonight, he'll be back. You guys can be happy, trust me."

"Happy?" Clint laughed sadly and took a seat on Steve's other side. "He fell in love with a hooker. He's never going to be happy. Never fall in love with someone who sells themselves, Steve. It always ends badly." He rested a comforting hand on Steve's shoulder while Pepper glared him down. "What?" he asked.

"Tony loves him. This doesn't change that," she said.

"Clint's right," Natasha said. She came to a stop in front of them, his arms crossed over his chest. "It doesn't matter if there's love. It's about what'll happen to the relationship."

"And what will happen to the relationship?" asked Rhodey. He appeared at the end of the stage then walked across to join the group. Like Pepper, he was glaring, muscular arms crossed over his chest, promising to end anyone who spoke ill of his friend. Steve had never respected him more than he did in that moment.

"It falls apart," Natasha said. "It's simple. First there's desire, then passion, then suspicion, jealousy, anger, betrayal. You can't have this—this situation—and have trust."

"And if there's no trust, there's no love, buddy," said Clint. "Jealousy will drive you mad."

Steve looked down at his half-eaten sandwich. Suddenly, he wasn't so hungry anymore. He thought of Tony—of his laugh and the way he refused to turn away when Steve complimented him, the way he fought not to smile. He thought of Tony snorting at one of Steve's dumb jokes, and mustard dripping down his face when he ate too fast—a sudden idea for an invention taking over everything else, and he'd rush off, only surfacing hours later, covered in grease, and, far too often, his own blood. He thought of Tony sleeping, his face calm, light, his fingers tangled up in Steve's shirt and his leg wrapped around Steve's own, thought of the curve of his jaw, the stubble, the lean muscles of his stomach, and the press of his lips, the touch of his hands, his naked body sliding against Steve's.

And that's where the image changed, when Steve became the Duke, and he could see Tiberius' clammy hands on Tony's smooth skin, his fingers tracing Tony's face, sliding down his arms, his chest, his waist. Tiberius' lips on Tony's shoulder, and Tony taking off his suit jacket, his well-pressed dress shirt, his belt…

Steve crushed the sandwich in his hands and forced himself to take a deep breath. This was Tony he was talking about. Tony who could wow a crowd, Tony dressed to the nines, who dragged Steve into his room wearing nothing but ripped sweat pants and a stained t-shirt. Tony who smiled for Steve with his teeth, not tightly pressed lips and cold eyes. Tony who showed Steve his projects and ranted on and and about the future, about his ideas—never pausing to wonder if he sounded stupid or to worry over appearances. Tony without a mask.

The Duke might have Tony's affections for a night, but he'd never have that; he'd never have the real Tony, the Tony only Steve got to see.

Bruce took a seat on Natasha's right and leaned forward, closer to Steve. "Trust me," he said. "Anger is not your friend. Don't let it consume you. Pepper's right. This doesn't change anything. What you and Tony have—whatever you have—that's between you, and you're stronger than a job."

"Aye," Thor agreed. He leaned against the nearest prop, his great arms crossed over his chest, his usually smiling face graver than Steve had ever seen. That, more than anything, solidified Steve's situation, making it completely, painfully real. "If you truly love him, you must persevere."

Steve pressed the palm of his free hand against his eyes, rubbing until dots appeared in his vision. If only it was as easy to wipe thoughts from his mind. Standing up, he offered up the rest of his sandwich (it was grabbed immediately by all), thanked his friends for their advice, and left the building.

He walked the streets, his feet taking him instinctively to the Duke's balcony. From his spot below, he could see the man's bedroom window, the doors thrown open, curtain flying in the wind. Tony stood with his back to the railing, the Duke hovering over him; both were half dressed.

Tony turned, his gaze raking over the cityscape, then down to the streets below him. His eyes locked with Steve's. Steve bit his tongue to keep from crying out to him, from begging him to stop, from scaling the wall just to be by Tony's side.

"I love you," Tony mouthed.

As he turned, folding back into Tiberius' greedy arms, Steve whispered the words back to him.

* * *

Despite all his instance that he "had to do his job," there wasn't one cell in Tony's body that wanted to go through with the night's events.

Everything about Tiberius gave him the creeps—his "too cool" hair, and his want-to-be suave smile, the way his hands ghosted over Tony's spine for far too long, or his eyes lingered below the belt. Clearly, Tiberius wanted to be important, wanted it so bad that he shook with it down to his bones, down to his core. Maybe he'd been a bullied kid or an unsuccessful teen, maybe the failures of his life were adding up, the need to prove himself building in his chest until it burst out of him in small creepy gestures like grabbing possessively at Tony's wrist, or dictating every line of The Avengers' script. Tony might have felt bad for him if he hadn't hated him so damn much.

In a way, he could relate. Tony knew quite a lot about being desperate, about dreaming—seeing your chance, your potential in the eyes of every stranger, in the reflections in the windows, in the whispers of every passerby on the street. He'd stooped to some very desperate levels to accomplish those dreams, but he'd never stolen anything.

This—standing in Tiberius' private bedroom, a glass of scotch in his hands, and Tiberius' eyes drifting—well, this felt a lot like theft.

"A relationship? With the writer?" Tony laughed. The lie burned at the inside of his throat as he thought of Steve's lips on his jaw, and his thumbs on his hips, his hot breath heavy on his neck. "No. Definitely not. Look, he's got a crush. It happens. Am I indulging it? Sure. He's talented, and we need him. After the plays over, it ends. But this thing could bring in a lot of money, and you know how artists get. In need of constant ego stroking. But it's not real."

Steve's voice drifted through his head, soft whispers of love, of confidence, Steve hovering over him as he tinkered over his latest project, asking 'what's that?', 'how's it work' 'it looks brilliant' 'tell me about it' with a passionate, honest interest that no one had ever shown Tony's work before. He thought of Steve's eyes lightning up when he showed him the latest prototype for the reactor—almost finished, almost right. Steve's face lighting up, his stifled laugh late at night, the firm press of his body as he pulled Tony into the dressing room while they were supposed to be working.

Tony had never experienced anything more real in his life. He suspected he never would again.

Still, Tiberius looked pleased at his words, his confident smile back in place. Well, at least one part of Tony's speech had been true; ego stroking did wonders. "When this place succeeds, you won't have to work here anymore," said the Duke. "With the money we'll make, we can go anywhere. You can get a real workshop to do your…projects."

Tony could see it clearly; a large room, desks in every corner, machinery surrounding the place, messy—because that was how he worked best—but perfectly, completely his. "Projects" was a bit of an understatement—a small word for all the dreams he had planned—but he could take it, could accept the offer and be content. Maybe not happy, certainly not as blissfully at peace as he was when he was tinkering in his room, alone with Steve, but it was a start. A chance at a real life.

And all it would cost him was his heart.

"And the ending?" he asked.

"The silly little writer will get his fairy-tale ending," Tiberius conceded. He sighed, scratching his head. "Stupid ending, isn't it? But I suppose the crowds will like it."

Tony nodded. It was a nice ending, but Tiberius was right; it was unrealistic. This was how stories ended—sacrifice and pain; in the real world, you took what you could get, and you learned not to feel.

Tony stepped back until the railing of the balcony pressed into his spine, the rough edges of the metal scratching over his skin. The window was open wide, a breeze fluttering into the room and sending the curtains flying. His shirt, already thrown aside and lying on the floor, twitched slightly.

Tiberius advanced, and Tony turned at the last minute. Let the Duke touch him, let him have his fill, but he'd rather see Paris—all that potential, all that progress, stretched out for miles ahead—than to see the lust in Tiberius' cold eyes. Tony counted the buildings, watched a bird fly by overhead—anything to distract from Ty's lips on his shoulder and his hands drifting along his zipper. He looked down and caught side of a young man just below, his blond hair swaying in the wind and his face scanning upwards…

Steve.

Tony's heart skipped a beat, and the tighter Ty's hands pulled him in, the more his mind—his heart—drifted out, out of the room, out of SHIELD, out of Ty's grasp and back down on the street, poor but happy with Steve by his side. In that moment, he forgot about the reactor, forgot about the play, about Fury and his deals, about the future. There was nothing but Steve's pain ridden face, and the memory of his lips.

He mouthed "I love you." Aloud, he said firmly to the Duke, "No."

Tiberius pulled away. "No?"

Tony shook his head. He pulled away from the window and hurried across the room. Picking up his shirt and belt, he made his way to the door. "I can't. I'm sorry. You're going to have to find a new—"

Tiberius' hand collided with the side of Tony's face, knocking him off balance. He stumbled back several feet and dropped his shirt in surprise.

"No," Tiberius said again, and this time, his face was murderous. "This is not how the story ends. Don't you see?" He grabbed Tony by his belt loops and pulled him forward, crashing their lips together. "You made me believe that you loved me." With shaking fingers, he fumbled over Tony's zipper. "This is how the story ends."

Tony pushed him back with as much force as he could muster, sending the Duke flying backwards and stumbling into the bed post. He growled, but before he could do more than take a single step forward, Tony punched him in the face and left the room.

He stumbled headlong into Rhodey.

"Woah, oh, hi," Tony said, taking a step back. Only now, in the light of the hallway, did he realize he was shaking. The button on his pants had fallen off, and his shirt had been left behind.

Rhodey seemed to put together what must have happened, because his expression immediately turned livid and he made a step toward the Duke's room as though to confront him. Tony grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

"Forget it," he said. "I got to get out of here. Where's Steve?"


	11. Chapter 10

Tony arrived back in his room at half past midnight. Steve was already waiting for him, sitting on the edge of the bed with his hands shaking in his lap. He'd tried to put it all out of his mind, tried to write, to paint, to stare out at the city lights and pretend none of it was real—that were no secrets, no affairs, no ultimatums and bad deals. That Tony was just at work, and when he got back—from his perfectly ordinary job—they'd be fine. They'd be normal. They'd be happy.

Of course, it didn't help that he could hear the cast celebrating from below. A bottle of champagne popped open. Music. Dancing. A whole party in honor of the play—his play, his words—and none of it would exist without Tony. Steve's whole life, every dream he'd ever though he wanted, was all thanks to Tony, and Steve would trade all of it just to have the man back in his arms.

When he finally did come, Tony was a mess. Hair disheveled, shirt missing, pants ripped and Rhodey firm by his side, Tony practically flung himself across the room and into Steve's arms. Steve embraced him immediately and ran his hands over Tony's arms, his back, his neck and jaw, checking for injuries and reassuring himself once again that Tony was here—Tony was fine.

"I couldn't do it," Tony said. "I couldn't go through with it."

Rhodey leaned against the doorway. The expression on his face made it quite clear that he would not be leaving any time soon. Steve couldn't find it in his heart to blame him no matter how much he might want to be alone with Tony.

Steve traced small circles over Tony's cheek with his thumb. "It's okay," he whispered. He pressed a kiss to Tony's cheek, then to his forehead, then finally his lips. "It's okay."

"No, it's not. He knows. He saw you. I mean, I saw you. I was going to do it, it was fine—it was normal, you know, just another job—and then I saw you, and it wasn't just another job. And I couldn't do it. Fuck, I'm so stupid. I couldn't do it. I couldn't…I couldn't pretend anymore." Tony shrugged helplessly. It was, Steve noted, his shortest rant to date, and that scared him more than anything.

He ran his hands through Tony's hair, settling it back into place while he whispered promises into the man's neck. "It's okay. We'll figure it out. It's okay."

It was horrible and selfish, especially now with Tony so riled up and shaken, but Steve was tremendously glad that he hadn't gone through with the plan. Screw the costs, screw the show, screw everything they had riding on the Duke's money and opening night. Steve had dreamed his whole life of being a writer, but now it wasn't worth it. Not like this. Not at these costs.

Tony was far more important.

Tony continued babbling under his touch, his shaking mostly settled now, but his eyes still wide. "I can't pretend anymore. I can't keep lying. I can't—"

"You don't have to." Steve pulled away just enough to look Tony firmly in the eyes. "You don't have to pretend anymore. We'll leave. We'll leave tonight."

Tony stepped back, looking more bewildered than ever. "Leave? But your show…"

"I don't care." The words spilled out of him without conscious thought. He was surprised to find he meant it. "I don't care about the show."

Tony shook his head. "I'm not going to let you throw away everything you've been working for. I'll fix this. I'll-I'll go back."

Steve shut him up in the nicest way he knew how and kissed him. "It doesn't matter, Tony," he repeated as he pulled away. "We have each other. That's all that matters. We'll go tonight."

"He's right," Rhodey said from the corner. All this time, he'd stayed silent, pretending to be occupied with the picture on the far wall, but now his gaze was steady and focused on Tony. He moved closer to his friend. "Come on, Tones, you always knew this was a temporary gig. You've got a lot more to give the world than this place."

Tony's mouth twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. "Then you're coming with, right?"

Rhodey shrugged. "You wouldn't make it a day without me."

Tony laughed. "Okay." He paused, looking between Rhodey and Steve for a moment, then he surged forward, grabbed Steve's face in his hands, and kissed him—quick but hard. "Okay. I just have to grab the reactor. It's in Fury's office. He was checking it out, AKA tearing it apart for the next show. I'll meet you at your place." He kissed Steve again, warm and brief, then hurried off, leaving Steve kiss bruised and more optimistic than he could remember being in weeks.

* * *

Fury was already waiting for him in his office. Arms crossed over his chest, glare in place, forehead twitching, he wore his normal look of intimidation, the one that said "I am Fury, watch me roar" and promised an hour long lecture if Tony stuck around long enough for him to get started.

Tony had absolutely no plans to do so (nor, much to Fury's displeasure, had he ever).

Ideally, he would have snuck into the director's office, stolen back his property, and ran away off into the night without Fury being any the wiser, but luck was simply not on his side.

"You look like you're in a hurry, Stark," Fury said the second Tony opened the door. He leaned against his desk, the reactor held in one hand as though he'd seen it all coming, as though he knew Tony'd be there, and why.

Tony sighed. "Yeah, sort of am. So if you want to just hand that over…"

"You can't leave, Stark." Fury set the reactor back on the desk and advanced several steps across the room.

Tony side stepped him and grabbed the reactor, holding it behind his back as he made his way to the door. "Like hell I can."

Fury shook his head, and there it was again—that sad, worried look, such a harsh contrast to his normal mask of intimidation. Frankly, Tony prefered the glaring. "What?" he snapped.

"The Duke is going to kill Steve."

The words hit Tony like a physical weight to his chest. Before he could even begin to process them, Fury continued, "He's insanely jealous. You always knew how this would end, Stark. He's a powerful man. You do what he wants—"

"And I'm going to do what I want!" Tony snapped. "Fuck, he's one man, Nick."

"A powerful man," the director repeated. "With a lot of men under his command."

Tony shook his head. "I don't care. I'm not scared. And why should I be? You seen this guy? Honestly? He's a fucking creep is what he is, and you know what, I don't really give a damn. I'm getting out of here. I don't need you. I don't need SHIELD. And for the record, fuck you." The rage was building up inside him, years of unspoken anger, of resentment piling up at once, spilling out of him before he could stop it. "For years you've made me believe I was only worth what someone would pay for me. Well you know what, I found better. And I did it without you, or this place, or your fucked up games. Steve and I, we're getting out of here. And we're taking Rhodey and anyone else we can convince to leave this foresaken—"

"You're dying, Tony." Fury used his first name. In all the years he'd known him, Tony had never been anything more than 'Stark.' What was more, the look was back. The sad look, the serious look, that darkened glow in Fury's eyes that was so new to Tony—not mean, not controlling, not powerful at all, but real. Human.

It would have been easy not to believe him, to dismiss it as another lie, another cheap attempt to get him to stay—to bring in the big bucks—but the half-beating heart in Tony's chest told a different story. The paleness of his skin, the way he couldn't get a full breath anymore, all the little signs he wrote off as stress—from work, from sneaking around, from Ty. But deep down, he thought he must have always known.

After all, he was a man of science. Tony always saw the variables, and they all added up.

"How do you—" he started but Fury was one step ahead.

"We spoke to the doctors today. It's too late, Stark. That's not going to save you, not now." The director nodded behind Tony's back where he held onto the reactor with an iron grip. "Send Steve away," Fury continued. "Only you can save him."

Tony thought of Steve and that determined little twitch he got in his smile when he knew he was right, the blaze in his eyes when he was fighting the good fight. This was it, wasn't it? This was the battle worth fighting—perhaps the only one worth fighting that Tony had ever known—and they'd just lost. "He'll fight for me," he whispered.

"Unless he believes you don't love him."

Tony blinked. "What?"

"Come on, Stark." Fury smiled; the gesture was more razor sharp and cold ice than it was sunshine and rainbows. "You're a business man. You're a salesman. Sell it. Make him believe you don't love him."

Tony shook his head. "No." It was too much, too dirty, too wrong. He'd rather rip his own heart out than go down that path but…

"Use your talent to save him. His life is in your hands now. Hurt him. Hurt him to save him. The show must go on, Stark. You know the game. We're creatures of the underworld. We can't afford love." Fury shrugged as though it was all so simple. Once upon a time, Tony had believed it too. Believed he really could shut his heart down for good, and it wouldn't die in the process. Believed it was worth not to feel—that it was even possible.

He knew better now. He wished he didn't.

It came again, the stinging, throbbing pain in his chest, far too literal, too agonizing to be ignored. A broken heart in every sense of the phrase, and it made his vision blur, his nerves burn. He looked down at his chest and saw the obvious signs of his own decay—a criss-crossing pattern of dark blue lines across his pale skin and the scars from his last back-room surgery gone wrong. He'd run the tests a thousand times, checked every variable, considered every option.

He was dying.

"The show must go on, Stark. Get ready." With his last words still lingering in the air, Fury crossed the room and headed out, his black trench coat swaying ominously behind him.


	12. Chapter 11

Steve's smiled fell—ecstatic to heartbroken in 0.2 seconds. It was a world record, he was sure; life was sad and unpredictable, yes, but it had certainly never changed this fast before—at least not in his experience.

One second, he was packing his things into his suitcase, tossing in his clothes (the worst fold job he'd ever done) and gathering his few earthly possessions, and the next, Tony was standing in his doorway, the reactor in one hand and his face unreadable.

"What's wrong?" Steve asked. He dropped the suitcase onto the bed. Old and battered as it was—his father's from before he was born—the handle bent to one side, and a cloud of dust rose up around it. Steve ignored this, all his attention focused on Tony.

"I'm staying with the Duke," Tony replied.

Steve's heart dropped into his stomach. It was a trick; it had to be. Tony who looked at the Duke with nothing but distain, who spoke of escape like it put the oxygen in his lungs, Tony who stared out the window when he wasn't staring at his inventions, dreaming of a new and better life. That Tony—the Tony Steve knew so well—would never choose to stay with the Duke.

"After I left to get, well," Tony held up the reactor. Wires stretched out from its back side, reaching for nothing. "He offered me a new lab, full funding for the club, all the supplies and equipment I could ever need. But he had one condition." He gestured at Steve with his free hand. "I can't see you anymore. I'm sorry."

Steve frowned and shook his head, still refusing to believe his ears. "What are you talking about?" he asked.

"You knew who I was." Tony said. He squeezed the edges of the reactor until his knuckles turned white; for a moment, the device seemed to absorb the entirety of his focus, and he stared down into the small glowing light. When he finally looked up to meet Steve's eyes, his own were terrifyingly blank.

Steve had always know Tony was a talented actor, but he'd never known him to disappear entirely. The Tony that stood before him now was not Tony Stark, the business man extraordinaire, or even Tony Stark, the grease covered engineer fiddling with wires in his bedroom. This Tony—shoulders back, jaw set, hands unmoving—was nothing but a ghost.

"What about the plan? What about us?" Steve asked. He surged forward, his hands reaching out for Tony—to touch him, to remind him of who he was, of who they were—but Tony backed away.

"The difference between you and me is that you can leave anytime you want," he said. "This is my home. SHIELD is my home. The plan is nuts. It was always nuts. Maybe it sounded good for a second, but it was never going to work. I have a job here. I have a plan here. And I can make that plan work with the Duke. With SHIELD. Not running off into the streets with you."

Steve's throat tightened. When he spoke again, it was as though the words were being choked out of him. "There must be something else. This can't be real," he said. "Something's wrong. Just tell me what it is, and we can fix it. Together. Tony, whatever is going on, just…tell me. Tell me the truth."

He tried again, his hand reaching out just far enough for his fingers to brush against Tony's arm before the smaller man side-stepped the embrace. Steve gulped. None of this made sense. Just an hour ago, Tony had been set to run away with him; even before their plan—sudden and reckless as it might have been—they had been happy. Hadn't they? Yes, it had been difficult to hide, and he would never enjoy the idea of sharing Tony with Tiberius Stone, but all the time they'd spent together had been good—great, if Steve had anything to say about it.

All those nights spent together couldn't be a lie. All those stolen kisses, the soft brush of Tony's fingers on his spine, the way they'd laughed when there was only each other to hear. They had felt too much, seen too much of one another to let it all slip through their fingers now.

At least, Steve had felt it; surely, Tony couldn't have been faking it all, could he? Why would he?

"Tell me the truth. Please, Tony. I'll understand," he said. He could hear his own voice break, hear the desperation in every note, and still, he couldn't bother to care. Nothing mattered but finding answers; nothing but fixing what never should have been broken in the first place.

"The truth?" Tony repeated. "The truth is I pick the king. That's how the story ends. Welcome to the real world, buddy. You've got a lot to learn."

Right then and there, hearing the malice in Tony's voice—the cold snap of it—Steve's heart broke, one piece chipped away for every word. Tony, his eyes still unnervingly blank, turned on his heels and left.

* * *

As Tony exited Steve's room, he seriously contemplated ripping out his own heart and exchanging it with the machine in his hand. It had been the plan all along—to use the reactor, the creation from his own hands and mind, to fix his broken, barely beating heart. Of course, the plan had always included a heart to fix, but why shouldn't he skip a few steps? His heart was useless anyway; let him throw it out, let him become a machine. He'd been sick for so long, he could no longer remember what it was like to have a working heart anyway. But at least with Steve he'd understood how a heart was supposed to feel . Maybe it didn't beat right, maybe it sucked at doing what a heart was supposed to—like pump blood through his body and actually function —but in the mushy figurative sense, his heart had finally figured it out.

For a few short, glorious months, he'd known love.

Now his heart was broken in both ways, and what was the point in a heart that couldn't even work metaphorically? Maybe the veins and aortas that kept it functioning like a not-so-oiled machine might be blown to hell, but he'd sort of enjoyed having its Valentine's Day counterpart working—the sort of heart that was rounded at the top and easy to draw, the one that came in colors of red and pink and was covered in lace, the one that Cupid shot arrows through. Fuck Ty, fuck Fury, fuck SHIELD, and all his whole damn screwed up excuse of a life because now he couldn't even have that.

Walking toward his death, Tony had nothing but a script in his head and the last lingering beats of his stupid heart against his ribs. He'd have been better off leaving it with Steve; at least it could have ended its days in peace.

Tony simply couldn't get Steve's face out of his mind. He'd always known he'd make a poor boyfriend, knew he'd let Steve down one way or another, but he'd never seen it playing out like this. Never did he think he'd be the one breaking Steve's heart—a heart that had so much to live for and so much to give. Tony would have given anything in the world to change places; hell, he'd give anything to go back in time if he could. If he'd known things would end like this, if he known then the pain he would cause him, Tony never would have dragged Steve through this mess. He never would have been so cruel.

As Tony made his way back to the club, Steve's panic stricken face played through his mind on an endless loop. Had there been another way? Had he done it wrong? Was there any nice way of hurting the only person you'd ever loved? If there was, he couldn't picture it, but he'd have traded it all—all his work, all the money he'd been hoping for—every happy moment—to erase the pain in Steve's eyes.

When the time finally came to present the play (and it did; as Fury said, the show always went on), a new actor took Steve's role, and Tiberius settled down in the back of the crowd with a look of glee on every inch of his face. Every hour between the break-up from hell and the start of the show reeked havoc on Tony's heart. He knew, even before the day began, before he was standing side stage, staring out at his seat in the crowd and wondering if Steve would show, this was it; today, when the curtain fell, and the dream ended, Tony would die.

He wasn't sure how he knew it; in fact, he wished he didn't. But he couldn't deny that each breath was harder to take than the last, couldn't ignore the constant piercing pain in his chest, the shaking of his hands, the pounding headache, the blurry vision. Tony simply knew, as though he held a stopwatch in his hand, and the seconds of his life were ticking down before his very eyes. Call it instinct, call it pessimism if you must, but the end result was undeniable.

This was it.

Prior to the start of the show, he put his affairs in order. He signed all his earthly possessions away to Rhodey, split his rather small bank account between him and Pepper, and wrote to every salesman in Paris with a rather convincing pitch for the reactor if he did say so himself. He might not live to see it change the world, but that sure as hell didn't mean it couldn't.

He wasn't leaving much behind, but he could at least leave his ideas.

And so the show came—a dazzling feast for the eyes, an overwhelming display of every color imaginable, dances and music, well-spoken lines, and a beautifully written play without its author anywhere in sight. The crowds came in bunches—a loud talking, squealing mob of people that sighed at all the right parts, gasped at all the little surprises, and laughed practically on cue.

Tony was dying, Steve was gone, and the show—as it always did—went on.


	13. Chapter 12

Bruce stood in front of Steve's desk, his usually subdued demeanor alight with sympathy and concern. "Things aren't always what they seem," he said.

Steve refused to look up. He couldn't bear to face the sadness in Bruce's eyes or the costume draped around his shoulders. "Things are exactly as they seem," he said while he focused on the paperless type writer in front of him.

The other Avengers stood in the doorway of Steve's apartment, dressed for the show and ready to head out. They'd all offered to drop the production entirely, to leave Spectacular Spectacular without a cast as a form of protest for the Duke's harsh treatment of Steve, but he'd refused. What was the point in losing his play when he'd already lost everything else? The show must go on—that was how the saying went, wasn't it? He might not be acting in it any longer, but those were still his words on stage. Anyway, the Avengers needed the money; Tony needed the money.

"Steve, are you sure—" Clint began, but Steve stopped him with a wave of his hand.

"I'm sure." It wasn't a lie, not really. He was sure that he wanted the play performed, sure that he wanted the Avengers to have their success. It was the more…difficult part of the situation that had him lost. He wasn't sure why Tony'd eyes had looked so cold just half an hour after they'd been filled with so much love. He wasn't sure what the Duke—or Fury, or any other member of SHIELD, really—had said make Tony change his mind. He wasn't sure if the ache in his heart would ever disappear. But mostly, he wasn't sure if anything he'd felt was ever real; of course, he'd meant it when he'd said he loved Tony, but had Tony meant it when he said it back? Had any of it—the time spent together, the moments shared, the love—been real at all? That he was quite unsure of. The play was an easy topic in comparison.

"Steve, I can't pretend to know what you felt or what you two shared, but I know love. If only because I long for it with every fiber of my being," said Bruce. He leaned against Steve's desk, bending until they were nearly at eye level. "He loves you. I know it. I know he loves you."

Steve tried to smile, tried to thank Bruce for the kind words even if they didn't help—couldn't help—but all that came out was a nod and a half strangled, "Hum." He cleared his throat and waved at the door. "Go. You're going to be late. All of you."

The Avengers watched him with varying expressions of worry and sorrow, then finally they turned and left one by one.

Alone in the deafening quiet of his barely used apartment, Steve set his hands upon his typewriter and seriously contemplated throwing it out the window. He'd gotten everything he'd ever hoped for—love, passion, a good story—and it had left nothing but an empty hole in his chest. He wanted desperately to believe Bruce's words, to fight through the sorrow and doubt and find some inkling of hope, but how? Yes, Tony was an excellent liar, but was anyone that good?

Perhaps he'd been forced, perhaps he'd been bullied or blackmailed into breaking Steve's heart; perhaps this was all the Duke's doing. It was a nice thought, but where did he draw the line between hopeful and simply naive? Tony had all the right in the world to leave, to change his mind about Steve. Steve only wished he knew why.

There was really only one way to find out. It was time to return to SHIELD and see the ending—the great finale—first hand.

* * *

Bruce had never been the type to meddle. Quiet by nature, he often took the backseat in his friends' affairs and was only known to speak up when directly asked for his opinion. He cared—of course he did—but he never saw himself as much of a help, and he was certainly no expert on love. Still, he couldn't help the gnawing suspicion that something was wrong here.

Making friends with Tony had been easy. Both men of science stuck in the wrong profession, they'd gotten along from the first second they'd met. Tony was brash and talkative where Bruce was reserved and quiet, but he'd brought out the best in Bruce, gotten him to open up, to unravel from his shell, and for that, Bruce was endlessly grateful. With Tony and the Avengers by his side, Bruce had finally felt appreciated—finally felt like he was somewhere where he belonged.

Now, everything was falling apart.

As he paced backstage and awaited his part in the play, he tried to think of an answer, a rational explanation to pull them out of the mess in which they'd fallen. Blackmail and wrong-doings were an easy explanation, but why, over what, and by who?

Just minutes before Bruce was to take the stage, two men appeared at the back of the room. The Duke was easy enough to recognize with his blond hair and crude sneer; the second man appeared to be some sort of body guard—Bruce recognized him only as someone he'd seen in passing.

"The boy is here," said the guard. "The writer kid. He's here."

The Duke growled—an animalistic, murderous sound that vibrated from his throat to fill the small room. Neither he nor the guard seemed aware of Bruce's presence. "I told Stark if the writer came near him, he'd be killed!" Tiberius snapped.

The guard nodded. "He very soon will be." His hand twitched over something in his jacket pocket—a long, gun shaped something that sent Bruce's heard thudding in his chest.

That was it. That was the answer. Tony had only pushed Steve away to save him. Now, if he could just find Steve before the Duke and the guard found him—

Clint said his last line—Bruce's cue to take the stage. The rope was already around his waist, and before he could even think to untie it—to throw the rope aside and run off to warn his friends—one of the crew members yanked at the pulley, and Bruce went flying. He rose up, up, up into the air, through the curtains and into center stage where he hovered, suspended above the crowd and unable to do a thing to help.

Panic rose in his chest like bile.

* * *

"I've come to pay my bill." Steve stopped before Tony's work station. The engineer stood backstage, overseeing the technological aspects of the play's production. He turned around, his expression dropping when he saw Steve with an envelope full of money in one hand.

"You shouldn't be here," he said. He ushered for one of the crew members to take over the pulley system; in a millisecond, the man had hoisted Bruce up into the air.

"Just leave, Steve." Tony turned away and hurried off to the next section—adjusting the lighting and instructing the crew members on how best to do their varying jobs.

"I'm an honest man. You did your job. Gave me one hell of a convincing show. I'd just like to pay off my debts." Steve took another step forward until he and Tony were only inches apart. Back behind the curtains, the room was dark, leaving criss-crossed shadows to fall over Tony's terrified face.

"There's no point. Just go. You really, really can't be here," he said.

"Everyone else pays. If you don't love me, and it wasn't real, why can't I pay?" Steve folded his free hand—the one not holding the money—into his pocket. Only then could he hide the trembling in his fingers and keep a straight face. Only then could he keep from breaking down the moment his eyes met Tony's.

He'd thought it over for hours—days really, ever since Tony had broken things off—and this seemed the only rational course of action. If Tony accepted the money, then Steve would know for certain: it had been a job all along. If that was all it was—all it ever had been—Tony would be expecting nothing less. Steve was nothing if not a man of his word—a man who paid his debts.

He'd just never thought, even for a second, that Tony would ever be a bill to him.

"Steve just go," Tony snapped. He stepped around Steve, placing several feet's distance between them. "Get the hell out of here. Just…go!" He was pale—paler than Steve had ever seen him—and his hands shook at his sides. Was it fear from seeing Steve—that awkward heart stopping panic of seeing an ex—that had him so riled, or something else? Something worse?

For not the first time, the thought drifted back to him, the idea that all of this—the breakup, the heartache—was some elaborate scheme that started higher up than he could ever know. Fury's doing? The Duke's?

"Just tell me you never loved me, and I'll go." Steve crossed his arms over his chest; for once, he figured, his stubbornness might do him some good. He'd go mad if he didn't get some answers. He could live knowing that Tony didn't love him—not happily, not fully, but alive all the same—but he couldn't go another day wondering. Was it real, was there a bigger meaning, was he missing the point?

Before Tony could say a word, several of the backup dancers came rushing by, dragging Tony and Steve with them in their mad rush to get on stage. Next thing he knew, Steve was standing before a crowd of eight hundred paying guests with eight hundred pairs of curious eyes staring up at him. Tony stood by his side, looking equally surprised and just as out of place—both in their civilian, costume-less clothes.

"Ah! The two brave warriors return home—neighbors of the great king!" Thor announced, settling the crowd's confusion and giving reason for Steve and Tony's sudden appearance; he winked at them both.

Steve turned to Tony and whispered, so only he could hear, "Thank you for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love." With that, he turned on his heels and stepped off stage. As the dancers behind him started their theatrical version of the cha-cha, Steve walked down the aisle between the two sections of the crowd. Eyes followed him from every direction until they realized where the real show was and turned back to the stage.

That is, until Tony made him part of the real show.

"Spoiler alert, folks, but she's going to choose the writer," he said. The music stopped. The dancer's came to a screeching hold, bumping into each other in their haste to stop. Tony stepped to the center of the stage as the play and all their hard work fell apart around at the seams. "Why would she ever choose the King? Because he's got money? She doesn't want money. She wants to live. That's all she's ever wanted. And you know what, she feels fucking—sorry uh, freaking—alive when she's with the writer. That's the person she's supposed to be, the one she wants to be with. Come what may."

Steve, who had already frozen halfway down the aisle the second Tony began to speak, now turned around. Tony met his eyes and shot him a small, hopeful smile. Steve returned it, though tentatively. If Tony was saying what he was thought he was saying—and it was always hard to tell with Tony—then that meant he still loved him. There were still no answers, no explanations to why he'd ended things, but it was a start, and Steve would take it.

He crossed the room and stepped back on the stage in two easy strides. With no thoughts for the audience—confused and befuddled as they now were—and no cares for the consequences, Steve took Tony's face in his hands and kissed him for every day they'd had to go without. The audience gasped.

With that one simple move, the room exploded—dancers clearing the stage, audience members jumping out of their seats, the Avengers crowding protectively around the couple, while a man with a gun jumped on stage and pointed it straight at Steve's head. A woman screamed, and a man yelled for someone, anyone, to call the police. At that same moment, Bruce came swinging down on his rope and knocked the man and the gun to the floor.

"They were trying to kill you. This whole time. That was their big plan. That was why—" Gasping for air, Bruce gestured for Tony to finish the story before he buried his head between his knees.

"Is that true?" Steve asked. He watched as Natasha's high-heel stomped down on the man with the gun, effectively pinning him to the floor.

Tony nodded. "I thought it was the only way."

Steve shook his head. "You didn't have to protect me. I could have—"

"Could have what?" Tony raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Looked that gun in the eye? Fantastic plan. Real rational. Oh look, he's getting arrested." Tony smiled gleefully as authorities burst into the room and made a beeline for the Duke's guard who Natasha was still holding captive. A few other officers began escorting the crowd from the building; Tiberius slinked off out the back door. All the while, Tony clung to Steve's hand; if he never let go, that would have been perfectly fine with Steve.

For one brief moment, everything made sense. For that single second, as Tony leaned into his side and Tiberius disappeared for what Steve hoped was the last time, while their last kiss still hung, heavy and perfect, on Steve's lips, he felt blissfully happy.

And then Tony was falling.

Steve caught him on instinct. He sunk to the floor as the man collapsed into his arms, gasping for air and clutching at his heart. Tony laughed shakily, his eyes unfocused. "Fuck, I actually forgot," he said.

"Forgot what?" Steve's voice was more desperate, more hysterical than he ever could have imagined. How could life yo-yo so fast, bad to good and back again in less than an hour? Steve could hardly keep up. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"I'm dying." Tony's fingers stilled against his chest. "I'm sorry. Fuck, Steve, I'm so sorry. I was trying to—"

"I know. I know, it's okay." Steve shook his head. Apologizes weren't necessary, not anymore. He simply couldn't find it in him to care. "You were trying to protect me, I understand. You're fine. You're going to be fine."

"I'm so sorry," Tony said again.

Steve held on tighter, his fingers digging into Tony's arms as though he could will him to stay—awake and alive beneath his touch. "It's alright. You'll be alright. I know you'll be alright."

"The white light is bullshit. I don't see anything." Tony was shaking in his arms now.

"That's because you're not dying," Steve said stubbornly.

Tony smiled. "Write it down, okay? Tell everyone there's no white light. Tell them about us. I don't want to be the damsel in distress this time. Tell 'em the real story—" He broke off, coughing hard. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth.

"Okay, okay. I promise. Just stay with me."

But it was no good. With one last squeeze of his hand, Tony's eyes closed and he went limp in Steve's arms. The last fleeting moment in the life of the great Tony Stark.


	14. Epilogue

Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. And then, one not so very special day, Steve went to his typewriter and sat down to write their story.

That last promise guided every word.

Pain was not the sort of the thing that disappeared over night. For years after, Steve could still feel Tony's shaking form in his arms, could still see the blood on his lips; but mostly, he remembered kissing Tony in a crowded room, remembered their fist kiss and their last, remembered the brush of their hands, and the hysterical way Tony laughed too late at night, or the way his eyes lit up with a new idea.

Sometimes, when the story gave him trouble, or the pain became too intense to ignore, Steve remembered what it was like to write—that simple, basic pleasure. He remembered the empowered feeling he could only get when he sat behind his keyboard. He remembered the rush of a crisp white page and Tony stealing it away in order to bring Steve back to bed. He remembered writing by hand, remembered all the ink splotches and stains from where he'd spilled after Tony had snuck up on him from behind, throwing his arms around Steve's waist and kissing behind his ear.

He remembered Clint's laugh and Natasha's smile, which he still saw most days when he visited the Avengers. They were back where they started, writing and performing out of their living room, but they were happier that way. Children of the revolution, they found freedom in their penniless independence. No benefactors to dictate what they could or could not say. No "supporters" to stomp out their creativity. Years later, they'd find success with one of Steve's later plays—a comedy in which Bruce took the leading role—but that was all still to come.

For now, Steve focused on one story and one story alone: theirs. His and Tony's—for with every word, he immortalized what they'd shared. In that way, Tony's smile never had to die—not really. And that pounding in Steve's heart, that fire that kept him going, stayed forever lit.

It was a story about a time, a story about a place, a story about the people. But above all things, it was a story about love.


End file.
